


The Capture

by Aard_Rinn



Series: Crime in Crystals [4]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, prazzledazzle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24335902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aard_Rinn/pseuds/Aard_Rinn
Summary: Prowl is desperate - he's got no one to turn to.Well, he has one person to turn to. How unfortunate for everyone else.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Series: Crime in Crystals [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749994
Comments: 225
Kudos: 295





	1. Chapter 1

It’s been five orn, and he’s very, very sure that Jazz is Meister.

Or Meister is Jazz - all of his observations haven’t been enough to determine which is the true personality, and which the disguise. Jazz has an innocence about him, visor bright, steps light, that seems at odds not just with Meister but with all of Praxus - a friendly, casual demeanor that forgets to watch the shadows, that smiles too easily at monsters.

It is, as far as Prowl can tell, the most compelling evidence that he’s guessed correctly: if Jazz wasn’t Meister, he’d be dead.

Jazz hasn’t seemed to notice his observation. Prowl hopes that it’s because of his subtlety - a daily cube at Apophyllite’s across the street from where he performs, the occasional stroll through the crystal gardens behind him. It’s risky - no enforcer should develop habits - but so far, Meister hasn’t moved on or shown up in his washracks and told him to stop, so either he hasn’t been noticed, or the assassin doesn’t care if he knows.

If Prowl is honest with himself, there’s no reason for Meister to care. He has no intentions of using the knowledge against him - he has no intentions of turning the other mech in.

He had no intentions of contacting the mech at all, until today.

A timer ticks down at the edge of his HUD. Eighteen joor.

He plans his approach carefully, from his spot at the window - not bothering to glance out. He has enough of a map of the neighborhood stored, running through each new iteration of a plan in his ATS, discarding, and moving to the next one. It’s more meditative than anything - calming his shattered nerves.

He is very, very afraid.

Memories of the mechs at his door, the pounding - hulking figures, pushing past him, making themselves at home in his apartment, shoving him back into his own chair as they informed him, in no uncertain terms, that his informant - Jasper - was very caught, and that, if Prowl didn’t make suitable amends to their boss, he would be very dead. Just business. Madame Rhodolite sends her regards, officer. How much do you value your mech?

Too much, maybe. Jasper is a guttersnipe, no one important. He’s given Prowl tidbits, little snippets of information, nothing major. Any officer would tell him to cut and run, that Jasper burned himself, getting caught.

And Prowl can’t afford to give Rhodolite what she’ll want in return for Jasper’s life.

But… he can’t afford not to. He’s spent so long working alone, and Jasper’s help… it means more to him than it should, even if the cheerful younger mech has just been feeding him gossip. The thought of leaving him, of letting him get smelted for trying to make a difference…

And now he’s here, at his booth. Jazz - Meister - is right across the street, voice just loud enough to filter through the buzz of the cafe, and Prowl is planning something reckless.

He finishes his drink, leaves a cred chip on the table for his drink, and strides out into the sunlight. He crosses the street casually, moving over to the performer, and Jazz doesn’t even look up - no one looks at him, just an enforcer on the street, no one worth starting trouble with. As the singer continues, he focuses inward, carefully disarming his ATS as he does - the computer will do nothing but distract him, here, too inflexible for what he will need to do to speak to Jazz. He waits until the musician finishes the song, the few listeners wandering off - 

And knocks his bucket over with his pede.

Jazz’s attention shoots to him, visor bright, but the sight of enforcer markings as he flairs his doorwings makes the singer’s plating flatten with fear. He steps back, nervous, hands going up in automatic submission, and his voice is soft and frightened when he speaks. 

“Can I help you, officer?”

Prowl _desperately_ hopes he has the right mech.

He steps forward, wings wide, radiating authority, and grabs the smaller mech by the wrist before he can run. “Your license to perform here is expired, Polyhex. I’m going to need you to accompany me to the station.”

No one is looking at them, now. In fact, everyone is very deliberately _not_ looking at them. He can feel it against his doorwings, sensors alight with the attention of all the mechs _not looking_ at what’s happening, desperately trying to avoid an officer shaking down one of the mechs making their living on the street.

No one wants to be next.

It rackles, but he plays the part - bending, scooping cred chips into the bucket and subspacing it. He doesn’t let go his grip on Jazz, and the performer doesn’t protest, cringing back but not resisting, not arguing. He and Prowl both know that he has another six vorn on the permit. He’s wise enough to know no one will care.

Prowl pulls out a stasis clamp, clipping it to the other mech’s back with a practiced gesture. “Transform, and follow me. You won’t like what happens if I have to use that.” It’s not what he should be saying - he should be reading Jazz his rights, should be letting him contact someone to meet them at the precinct - but it’s what is expected. He can’t be Prowl, right now - if this is to work, he needs to be another faceless, lawless cop, and faceless cops threaten.

Jazz doesn’t protest - he drops obediently into vehicle mode behind Prowl, following at a close but respectful distance as he’s led out to the highway. Prowl isn’t worried he’ll run - the stasis clamp he’s used is strong enough to take down a convoy - but the silence from the other mech is enough to cast shards of doubt across his meta. Jazz is very much acting like a frightened, innocent civilian, terrified of an officer who’s decided to take advantage of his rank.

By the time they reach the exit, he knows, one way or the other, that Prowl isn’t taking him to the precinct. They draw up at a light, and Prowl can feel the fear in his field, the hot tension as Prowl takes him down onto the more isolated substreets. There’s nowhere to run, down here. Not a good place for anyone who doesn’t call it home. 

He turns down another street, Jazz still close enough to brush against his field, and slow to a stop in front of a factory. Abandoned, as it has been since he was brought here the first time. Leased out to a company that has no history, no ties. Roomy, with no one to come looking when a mech screams.

Jazz’s field doesn’t teek recognition as Prowl transforms.

He unholsters his gun before stepping away from the street. It doesn’t take training to tell him that turning his back, here, on the other mech might be fatal - but leaving them both exposed is risky, too, especially if Jazz is just an innocent musician.

He pushes reassurance into his own field, for the first time extending it towards the other mech, who hesitates for a moment before transforming - taking up a position a respectful distance away, not meeting his optics. The fear in his field is biting, an accusation, an indictment even if that’s not what Jazz intends - but Prowl wrestles down the beast inside him that rages that no citizen should ever have to _fear_ him like this, and turns to hack the door.

There’s a second click, loud and dull like the lock of a stasis clamp, as it clicks open, and Prowl stiffens at the whir of another transformation sequence behind him. He doesn’t move as it finishes, letting the gun slip from his fingers, and doesn’t flinch when the blade slips between his shoulderplates to rest, threateningly, against a line.

“Meister.”

“Prowl.”

The assassin’s voice is low, angry - rumbling with threat - but Prowl isn’t dead yet. It’s a victory he’ll take, for now. “I needed to talk to you. No one knows where I am. I haven’t told anyone about this place.”

Meister is silent. The knife remains where it is, threat clear, but Meister hasn’t killed him yet, and that, too, is a victory.

“Inside.”

He lets his hands rise as he moves, telegraphing his obedience to the other mech as he slides through the door, slowly enough that Meister can follow without ever letting the knife slip from between his shoulders. The door slips shut with a click behind the assassin, who locks it with a few taps on the pad, and Prowl feels a buzz wash over him as he enters the range of the building’s comms disruptor. He stands patiently, waiting for Meister to speak, as the knife pulls away, and Meister circles to stand in front of him, dentae bared in a snarl.

White fire bursts in a roar across his sensors as the assassin backhands him to the floor. 

It’s not wholly unanticipated. Prowl knows he’s playing with fire, knew before he ever approached the assassin that this was dangerous, risky - but it startles him nonetheless, the sudden, furious violence of it. He scrambles back, pushing himself to a crouch - but Meister doesn’t let up, kicking hard enough to knock him off balance, grabbing him by a wing and his collar and throwing him with frightening strength to skid across the floor, away from any wall he might try to get his back to - it’s obvious the assassin doesn’t intend to give him the chance to fight back.

Meister is on him again before he can stand, silent as ever, radiating fury, slamming him chest-first against the floor. Prowl feels a burst of panic bubble up - his wings are right there, exposed - but Meister ignores them, the only mercy he shows as he lifts Prowl’s helm to slam him again, and Prowl feels an lens crack in one of his optics, vision going half-blurred -

And then he’s done, the attack seemingly over as quick as it began. Meister’s full weight presses down on his back, grinding him into the tiles as the assassin pins him. Prowl doesn’t fight, doesn’t try to struggle as a hand presses his helm to the ground, going as limp as he can.

He can feel the faint shake of Meister’s frame as the other mech vents, fans silently churning off heat - the tension as the assassin waits for him to resist, for some sign that Prowl intends to make this a struggle. Prowl is careful not to give it to him, staying still as the other mech’s vents cool, grip slowly relaxing, until at last the assassin slowly, warily, rises off of him.

Prowl waits half a click before lifting his helm. When Meister snarls, he stills again, and speaks.

“Please. I just want to talk. I have no intention of betraying you - no one else knows who you are. No one is going to look for you here.”

“Then no one will find you.” Meister’s voice has a cold chill to it, one that it’s never held before. He circles, footsteps silent. “I should slit your throat and dump you. What gave me away?”

Prowl keeps an even tone, flattens the tremble from his wings as best he can. Without the ATS, it’s harder to keep calm, with Meister stalking him like this. The only relief he has is that his wings, uninjured and unbaffled, can track the assassin as he moves, the faint rippling air of his passage. 

“You have some of the same kibble. The same visor. Polyhexians aren’t common in Praxus. And you have the same mods.” He hesitates. “Not the magnets. When you packed up your instruments. I could hear you moving, but your vents - your engine - were silent.”

Meister gives a low growl of frustration.

“I’ve known for weeks. I… went looking, after we met that second time. I didn’t expect to find you. If I was going to tell someone, I would have.”

“So it’s blackmail, then?” The assassin half-snarls it. “I do _your_ dirty work, and you let me keep my happy little life? I wouldn’t have expected it from you, officer. Mighta thought you were better than that. Who did you want me to kill, mech?”

The thought makes Prowl’s doorwings flair with shock, and Meister steps back, flaring his own plating aggressively in return. “No, nothing like -” He hadn’t even thought of it, almost _regrets_ not thinking of it, except he can’t imagine attacking Meister like that, not after the mech had _saved his life, spared his life_ \- “I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to threaten you - I won’t tell anyone, I swear. You have my word. I just… I need help.”

Meister stills, out of sight: listening, quiet, angry.

“Please, Meister, I’m sorry. Just.. hear me out.” Prowl slides carefully to his knees, raising his hands slowly, palms out and open - once they’re above his shoulders, he bares his wings. Makes himself defenseless - unable to lash out. Meister doesn’t stop him. “I - I need help. I had nowhere else to go.”

“So you decided to rat me?” Meister’s voice is a snarl, even though his engines are silent as ever. “I ain’t - I’m not a plaything, cop! I helped you one time - but I ain’t here to be used!”

“You came to me, last time!” Prowl only raises his voice a little, but it’s enough to make Meister pause, and he rushes on. “You came to me, and asked me to step back from my case, and I did. And you killed my suspect - killed a lot of mechs, and even without you I _had him_ \- I could have had him an orn earlier if I had kept working!”

“You would have got killed, mech -”

“ _You said you wanted me alive to do good in this city!_ ” Prowl might be yelling, now. He’s angry enough to, at Meister, at his stubbornness, at Praxus. Angry at himself. “You said you wanted to see some justice! Well I’m trying - I’ve been trying - but I can’t do it _alone!_ ”

His voice cracks on the word, and Meister steps back, plating flattening defensively, as if bracing for an attack. But Prowl doesn’t move, even as his engine snarls and his vents heave with heat. 

“I can’t do it alone. I never could, but now there’s a good mech who’s going to die tonight because I can’t, and I need -” He chokes on it, on the look on Meister’s face and the other mech’s anger, on the sudden surge of loneliness. It’s too much, and he knows, with sudden, crushing surety, that Meister isn’t going to help him, that the other mech is going to laugh and turn him away if he isn’t killed for the presumption, and Jasper is going to die tonight.

Despair makes his wings sag, and he lowers his hands - as if the assassin needs the assurance; he’d be dead before he could reach for a weapon. Bows his helm, offlines his optics - makes his field submissive. Begs. He owes his informant that much, at least. “I need help. Please. Whatever favors you want - whatever you need done, I’ll do it, just please, please help me.”

He doesn’t look up at Meister. Doesn’t want to see the anger on the other mech’s face, or the rejection - doesn’t want Meister to see the tears he can feel welling at the edges of his optics. Then, suddenly, there’s a gentle hand cupping his cheek, raising his helm - and as he onlines his optics, a thumb gently brushes them away.

Meister is crouched before him, expression oddly flat, visor almost white-bright. Nothing about him - not his expression, not his field, not his pose - is enough to betray his thoughts. It’s too much, and Prowl tries to look away, but Meister’s gaze and the smooth touch on his cheek has him pinned - fixed in place far more firmly than any cuffs, even as his spark roils in his chest.

“Alright.” 

Meister’s voice is soft, like he’s talking to a frightened mechanimal - it hardly registers, at first, doesn’t pierce through the veil of despair blanketing Prowl. But he repeats the word, again, and all the anger is gone from his tone, and Prowl feels suddenly exhausted, too tired for hope.

He follows, helplessly, when Meister rises, a hand on his shoulder steadying him when he staggers - lets the assassin guide him to the berth in the corner, seat him there. He feels numb, frozen, like he’s standing on the precipice of a crash - but there’s no crash building, just the cold static in his chest and the world narrowing around him.

There’s a dim awareness - Meister is speaking, saying something to him - but the words don’t process. Meister is watching him, speaks again, but Prowl can’t respond - there’s static all around him, and the darkened warehouse is too bright, everything growing hazy and dissolute -

Meister is touching him. Meister has - something, a thermal blanket - Meister is wrapping it around him, covering him, and Prowl can’t move to protest or free his doorwings, but Meister doesn’t pull it too tight, and the gentle pressure on his sensors is almost grounding, it doesn’t hurt -

And then a field blooms around him, and Prowl latches on before he can even realize that it’s _Meister’s_ field. Warmth, and compassion, and concern, and _safety_ , pushed against him like a promise, and there’s nothing he can do but reach out with his own numb field and drench himself in it. And - Meister lets him, and draws him in, and distantly, Prowl realizes that he’s being held, that Meister is sitting next to him and holding him close, arms around his waist and across his chest, and that he’s sobbing in the assassin’s arms -

“It’s alright, Prowl. Come back ta me. You’re safe. I ain’t gonna hurt you any more.”

Pressure that Prowl hadn’t even registered pours out of him like a tide, and he’s empty inside, suddenly left hollow and shaking, still sobbing, and he tries to curl away from Meister’s touch, but the other mech only pulls him closer, until he’s half-sprawled in the other mech’s lap, curled against his chest, and Meister is gently stroking his helm. Humiliation drenches him, spiking jaggedly across his field, and he has to get away - but Meister’s field is far more controlled, and the assassin floods it with - with kindness, and concern, and respect, as if Prowl hasn’t just broken in front of him, as if he hasn’t been fatally, cripplingly _weak_ -

“It’s alright, Prowl. Let it out. You’re gonna be alright.”

Meister’s voice is calm, and not mocking, and an _anchor_ , and Prowl clings to it, desperate.

The assassin doesn’t stop speaking, and the words wash over him, nothing that needs to be remembered, processed, analyzed - just constant, softly-spoken reassurances. Meister just keeps talking, and Prowl feels his field settling, the world blossoming back open around him, the static frost of panic receding back down his wings.

Meister pauses, for a moment. Then:

“You back with me, Prowl?”

Prowl squeezes his optics shut, and nods. “I’m - I’m sorry, I don’t know -”

Meister shushes him, gently, and Prowl cuts off with a choke. “You panicked, Prowl. It’s alright. Ain’t the first time I’ve seen it. Nothing you could’ve done about it, once it started. Nothing to be ashamed of.” Meister hums softly. “I’d’a thought you’d crash, first. Glad you didn’t.”

“I…” he hesitates. He doesn’t want to admit the weakness, not to the assassin still holding him close, but Meister… Meister hasn’t killed him yet, and Prowl… he’s out of options. He needs - to trust somebody, anybody, even if it’s Meister. “I shut off my ATS. Before we arrived. My - my tactical suite. I… I didn’t want it distracting me.”

The assassin shifts under him, and Prowl can feel the considering look, even if he can’t see it. “It makes you crash?” There’s no judgement in the question - just curiosity.

“If I… If I’m not ready, then adding in a… conflicting variable… can crash it.” He shouldn’t be saying it - realizes even as the words come out how dangerous the weapon he’s just handed to Meister is - but he can’t stop himself. “It’s very painful.”

Meister seems to be considering that, silent, all around him, and Prowl feels more words rise up even as he tries to resist saying them, realizing that they’re the exact wrong thing to say, that it’s the stupidest thing he could say right now - “Please don’t make me crash.” It comes out quiet, pleading, like he’s a sparkling timidly requesting something, and he hates it, but Jazz’s voice isn’t teasing or unkind when he responds.

“I won’t, mech. Wouldn’t do that to you.” His field is warm, and sincere, and Prowl, recklessly, believes him.

Meister sits with him for another click, then two, as Prowl can feel his stressed processes spinning down, his frame calming. It’s only once he’s mastered his field, stilling it enough to draw close, that the assassin speaks again.

“Your agent - your mech. You needed help?” Meister slips out from under him, tucking the thermal blanket back around him as he does, leaving Prowl to sit on the berth as Meister slides into a chair, dragging it closer. He offers a wrist, and it takes Prowl a moment to realize what he wants, processor still sluggish. “Show me.”

It goes against all his training - it’s not safe - but if Meister wanted to hack him, he’s had more than enough chances. Prowl unspools a data cable, wordlessly offering it to the other mech to plug in. He’s more surprised when one is proffered back, the thin black offer of a mutual connection. It’s enough to make him glance up - but Meister just smiles.

He clicks it into place, and awareness floods through him.

Meister is inside him - a sleek, dark presence, sliding against his meta like a knife. The assassin is vast, and dangerous: his code screams warnings, firewalls singing with the threat, but Meister doesn’t try to breach them - doesn’t even test them, instead waiting, looming, in the meta, letting Prowl bring forward whatever he wants the other mech to see.

He is inside Meister - a glitched line of code, jagged and rough in the other’s meta. He feels the other mech’s firewalls, a smooth black wall before him, and holds himself back as best he can from even brushing against them, doing anything to prompt retaliation. This isn’t his first time crossing cables: Prowl knows that he is damaged, that the presence of his processes in another’s meta is unpleasant.

He retreats into his own mind, as much as he can, and drags forward the files. Jasper’s final, frantic message. The video of the attack. Stills of Jasper broken, leaking. Rhodolite’s threat, Jasper’s yellow frame slumped behind him.

Meister watches it all, impassive. Doesn’t even flinch at the beating, when Rhodolite’s man smashes in the minibot’s windshield, scattering glass across the street - doesn’t so much as twitch when the video cuts to Jasper bound, in front of a smelter, optics dim and terrified, throat savaged, and Prowl feels another surge of terror that it’s not enough, that Meister will turn him away - 

But the assassin senses it, bound up in the meta as he is, and Prowl can feel it when his attention shifts. :I have you, Prowl. It’s alright. We’ll get him back.:: Sudden awareness blossoms, as Prowl reads the truth in Meister’s meta - he’s seen worse, done worse, this isn’t enough to shake him like it has Prowl, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t _care_.

::Rhodolite’s messenger said she was going to do it tonight. That they’d stream it - make me watch.:: He draws up the video, the messenger’s face lit by the predawn streetlights. ::It fits her usual patterns - she likes to wait, to give mechs the time to present an appeal.::

::I know.:: Meister brushes against his firewalls, not testing - a comforting gesture. ::I’ve crossed paths with her before. Nasty mech - but there’s always been a bigger fish.::

He offers memories of his own - a snarled confrontation between the jewel-red femme and a blue mech that Prowl recognizes vaguely as Cabachon. A heated encounter between her and a green mech, one that ends in a vicious, bare-handed beating. A pale grey mech on his knees, hands bound, begging, before he’s shot in the spark.

Prowl almost shudders at the thought of what’s being done to Jasper. 

::She’ll leave him intact.:: Meister’s words are cold comfort. ::She knows he’s got a mech looking out for him. You’re a useful tool for a mech in her position, Prowl. She won’t risk offlining him before she’s sure you won’t bargain for him.::

::There’s a lot you can do to a mech without offlining him.:: He knows, even as he says it, that he doesn’t need to tell the assassin that, but Meister only brushes comfort towards him again.

::I know.::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaa I'm so pumped to finally get to share this with you! Yaaas Prowl finally gets to kidnap Meister _back_ \- for all the good it does him, our assassin lad gets pissed. Still, he didn't break his toy, so they got to talk it out this time, and Prowl stayed conscious the whole time - we should all be very proud!
> 
> This story is the end of the first act and start of the real meat of this series, so I'm really pleased to have gotten to it - I know I've been posting pretty frequently, and TBH that was mostly so we could get here, to these next few stories :D I'm so excited!
> 
> We're finally eating through the last of my pre-written stuff, so I'll probably slow down to a chapter every 36 hours, or so - but then I might not, IDK, I still don't have anything else to do. But aaaaa I'm so pumped!
> 
> Prior warnings visavis editing remain in effect - HMU if you notice something major. And again, thank you so much to everyone who commented on my other stories - and who decides to comment on this! They are my lifeblood!


	2. Chapter 2

They disconnect carefully - Meister takes a moment to rub his hands, shaking off the numbness of the connection, before turning to help disentangle Prowl from the blanket. As he shrugs it off, Prowl arches his wings to full extension, cautiously, whole frame aching with bruises.

Meister gives a soft noise of concern. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” There’s nothing else to say. “You… you had a right to be angry.” 

The memory of Jazz’s frightened optics, the cold apathy of the crowd, the terrible, bitter taste in his mouth when no one even tried to stop him, rises up unbidden. “I’m… I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have - but I had to talk to you, I didn’t have any other way.” Prowl lets out a bitter laugh, wings dropping as he sinks in on himself and glances away. “But I’m not really different from any of them, am I? I wanted something, and so I took it, and I knew no one would question me because of the badge.”

When he glances back up to Meister, the mech is staring at him, something unreadable in his gaze. Prowl jerks with shock, wings flaring wide enough to make the cables burn, when the assassin gives a sharp snort of laughter and steps towards him.

“Prowl.” There’s a smirk on his lips, wide enough that Prowl can see the tips of his fangs, and Meister slides closer, close enough to teek his field - amusement, teasing, just a hint of confusion. “Do you - did you think I was scared of you?”

The mech’s sudden closeness, the strange mood, is enough to make Prowl step back, but the berth blocks him in as Meister reaches out to gently lay a hand on his shoulder. “I thought… you looked terrified. And I was - no one came to help you. I could have - I could have wanted _anything_ , and no one cared enough to stop me.”

“Sit, Prowl.” He sits, and Meister follows him down, a warm, bright field by his side. “If we’re gonna be working together, I need you to understand something. It’s important, alright?”

Prowl nods, listening, and the gesture sends a play of amusement through Meister’s field.

“Aight. I need you to understand: there was no moment, in any of all that,” he gestures widely with one hand, throwing the other over Prowl’s shoulder with a jaunty grin, “there was never a single point, at all, that I couldn’t have killed you.”

The words are so casual, they take a moment to register - by the time they sink in, Prowl is already frozen still, bitterly, terrifyingly aware of the pointed blade at his throat.

Meister’s smile is a sharkticon’s.

“This thing?” He unsubspaces the stasis clamp, tossing it to clatter across the floor. “Junk. A nice enough piece, for sure - good choice on the voltage, it woulda _hurt_ \- but it wouldn’t have stopped me, and you’d’a been dead before you had a chance to regret it. That nice, long drive to get down here? I could have killed you at any point, jumped off the highway, and they’d never have found me. Back at the square? I was curious, mech. Wanted to find out what you wanted. If I didn’t want to come, I wouldn’t have.”

The knife is still there, still sharp. Prowl hardly vents, frame perfectly, poisedly still.

“I play a good little bird, when I have to, Prowl. And yeah, I was upset. Took it out on you pretty good, and I’ll be honest - what you’ve showed me, you didn’t deserve that. It was a good reason to get in touch, and I’m happy to help you. But I was never, never afraid.” The knife disappears, as suddenly as it appeared, but Prowl doesn’t move - doesn’t dare to. “Relax, mech. I’m good at my job. If I was gonna kill you, all the sitting pretty in the world wouldn’t stop me - but I ain’t gonna kill you.”

It should terrify him. The sudden threat, the way Meister’s field can be so welcoming with a knife at his throat - he should run, he should be terrified, but all Prowl can bring himself to feel is relief. At the other mech’s confidence, at his strength - at the fact that he’s still alive, even after every time he’s crossed the assassin.

“I ain’t gonna die easy, Prowl. You and me, we’ll get your mech back, get him out of this city - an’ we’ll burn Rhodolite bad enough she doesn’t even think about touching my cop again. It’s gonna be alright, mech.”

“Thank you.”

That gets a bark of laughter from Meister. “You know, most mechs get slagged when I start threatening them with knives…”

“Most mechs get slagged when they’re threatened with unlawful arrest.” Prowl glances away. “You wouldn’t have hurt me.”

Meister gives him an unreadable look. “Fair enough.” He stands, stepping away from the berth and looking Prowl up and down.

“We need to get you patched up, first, I think.” The assassin looks him over critically, but his touch is gentle as he reaches out to touch Prowl’s face, and Prowl pushes the instinct to flinch away down. Meister’s fingers are cool as they examine his cracked optic lens, the bruising across his other cheek - “I’ve got a guy. Same medic that did your wing. We’ll need to stop by anyways - he’s usually my optics, for a mission like this.” 

He cocks his helm contemplatively. “You know where Rhodolite’s stashed your mech?”

That, at least, is easy enough. “Recycling plant, down on Seeker’s Beat. I can…” A pause as he realizes. “I’d need your comm - I have the geonav. One of Rhodolite’s known bases of operation - she uses it for this sort of ransom pretty frequently. Easy to dispose of the bodies.”

Meister nods, and there’s a broad-spectrum ping across the short-range; Prowl acknowledges and sends one of his own. Setting up a channel, he beams the data across.

“Looks good - I assume your tactical sussed it out, or did she tell you directly?”

“Tactical. The style of smelter in the background of one of her videos - it was easy enough to cross-check building records going back to the installation.”

“Good enough for me.” Jazz holds up a hand, optics de-focusing in the signature manner of a mech on a long-range comms call. It takes a minute - then his optics refocus as he looks back to Prowl. “Alright. I have an… associate, let’s call him, that gets into remote systems for me. He’s the best of the best - he should have us at least visual feeds by the time we’re ready to move in. I sent in the data - he should get back to me in the next few joors.”

“Is that how you dealt with the cameras at Tower Tectosilicate?” Prowl can’t help the curiosity - the tower had been trashed, absolutely destroyed in places, but there was no sign of Meister’s presence on the cameras until after Feldspar was dead. “I know you looped them, but…”

“Yeah, Klaxon’s the best there is. Ex-military - he’s paranoid as slag, but if it’s on a datanet somewhere, he can get it for you. If you can afford it.”

The mention of creds makes Prowl’s wings duck again. “I don’t… I make an officer’s salary, I’m not sure I can afford -”

“Huh?” Meister looks confused for a moment. “What? Oh, no -” He waves a dismissive hand. “He and I have an arrangement. He might be a little annoyed about a rush job like this, but it’s not a big deal - don’t worry about it.”

Prowl hesitates a moment before responding. This isn’t his world - whatever deals Meister has set up, he should just be grateful that the mech is willing to use them to help him, shouldn’t question - but that wars with the knowledge that he’s already _imposing_ so much -

Meister seems to sense his indecision. “Really, mech. It’s not a big deal. I’ve got him… let’s call it a retainer, right? He does the data work for me, I occasionally get him into closed-loop systems and wire him a couple million dirty creds out of a target’s personal account. He cleans them up, sends some back to me so I’ve got something to work with, and we’re even. This won’t even register.” 

“Oh.” It’s a relief. He doesn’t want to be even more in debt to the assassin - he’s already not sure how to repay him for helping at all. “Would he be able to… I have a couple of floorplans, but they’re all old architectural files. If he could get me a more current layout, I could begin working on routes -” 

He cuts off. “That is… if you wanted me to?” Sudden uncertainty twists at him. “I don’t know - I mean, what would you like my role in this to be?” He wants to help, wants to be on the ground, but Meister is the expert, and all of the information on file about him suggests that he works alone. Or… at least with one other mech, he reassesses - but having a mech monitoring the cameras is different than working with a partner on the ground.

“With me, if you’re willing.” Meister shrugs. “Rhodolite’s not a small target. She’s canny, too - she’ll be expecting _something._ ”

He grins. “The good news is, she won’t be expecting _me._ Between the two of us, we should be able to handle her.”

It’s a relief. The thought of staying behind, being sidelined in the rescue of his own informant… He wants to be there. Wants to help.

“You’ll need a gun.” Meister reaches into subspace for a moment before proffering the familiar black handle of Prowl's service pistol. "Here, I thought you might want this back. You'll need something different, though - something untraceable. I’m sure your precinct has all your guns on file.”

“You’d be surprised.” Meister beckons for him to follow, and Prowl flicks his wings as he obeys. “Easier to… cover things up, if you don’t have the records. Still, something in a different caliber might be preferable - one that I wouldn’t ordinarily have access to?”

“Sounds good ta me, mech. Let me see what I’ve got, alright? C’mon, over here.” 

Meister beckons, and Prowl follows him along the wall of the room until it turns around a corner - a small room, barely more than a cubbyhole. There’s a workbench, a few tools hung from a rack on the wall - pliers, a few small screwdrivers, a calipers, a row of punches - and a small pile of dremel bits spread over the bench itself, but otherwise, the area is almost fastidiously tidy. There’s a row of lockers at the back, padlocked, and next to them, a set of filing cabinets - Meister gestures him over to the workbench as he crouches before them.

The assassin pops a drawer open, rifling through it - pulling out what look almost like evidence bags, perusing the contents, carefully storing them again, until he finds one he likes. He rises, offering it to Prowl carefully, giving him the chance to examine it. “Tell me what you think of this - irregular caliber, custom rounds - _lot_ of stopping power. It’s clean - won’t match up to any kinda ballistics. It’s the youngling version of what I’m usin’ - won’t punch through walls as good, but you don’t have the infrasensory mods to make that count, and this’ll be a little lighter on your wrists. I’ll smelt them when we’re done.”

Prowl takes the gun, weighs it in his hand - and it’s obvious from Meister’s look that he hasn’t kept the distaste off his face.

“I can tell you don’t like it, mech, but I can’t do this without a second pair of hands, and your mech doesn’t have time for me to go looking for some. You might have ta shoot someone. You need something that can put ‘em down.”

That’s… not what Prowl was expecting him to say. “I’ve killed mechs before, Meister.”

“I know, and that’s the only reason I’m willin ta take you - I don’t think you’ll freeze in a fight. I know it’s hard, mech, but there ain’t a court that works fast enough for this kind of thing. It’s not your fault - once we get to Rhodolite’s den, every mech that sees you’d kill you, and happily.”

“No, that’s…” It’s a ridiculous thought, not at all the misunderstanding he was expecting from the look in Meister’s optics. “I’m not worried about that. I don’t like pistols.”

Meister pauses. “On a personal level, or…?”

“I was trained with a rifle.” He’s already disassembling the pistol as he speaks, checking the parts, wiping fresh grease on with a soft mesh as he goes. “I never quite felt as comfortable with pistols. It won’t be an issue,” he hastens to assure the other mech. “I understand that a pistol is preferable in a close-quarters situation. I scored acceptably with short- and long-guns.”

“Acceptably, huh?” Meister gives him a sideways glance. “Toss me your numbers.”

He slides a datapad across the counter, and Prowl obligingly cables into it, transferring the requested files. Meister finishes cleaning his own gun before picking it up, but when he does, he gives a low whistle.

“Acceptably, he says. You’re a sharpshooter!”

“The ATS assists.” Prowl lets his doorwings duck modestly, glancing away. “I was always a good shot, but it handles all of the ongoing calculations - wind speed, predictive directional movement, gravity-based trajectory at range. My brother is better than me - and he needs no help.”

“He must be a slagging terror.” Prowl gestures for the datapad, and uploads the second set of files. When he hands it back, Meister, for a moment, just stares. 

“That’s - that’s incredible. He shoots that, consistently?” 

Prowl doesn’t bother to keep the pride he always feels talking about his brother out of his field. “Always. He’s never scored below 98.6 percent accuracy. His commanders have often discussed whether or not it is a Sigma gift - it wouldn’t be the first in our sparkline.”

“That’s amazing. He military?”

“Police. Not here - in Iacon. He’s a sniper.” He hesitates - but his brothers are safe, far outside the reach of any mech in Praxus. “Our older brother is a psychoanalyst - and a hostage negotiator, when needed. He works counterterror in Crystal City.”

Meister gives a low whistle. “A whole family of cops, huh? Maybe I shoulda let Feldspar shoot you - sounds like they’d’a swept in and cleaned the whole city out to find you.” His field is gentle, teasing.

“I doubt it.” Prowl finishes his work, clipping the gun back together, giving the slide an experimental tug. “I… am not the best brother. Between the ATS, and my glitch… I rarely speak to them. They would have come for me, I’m sure - they are very loyal - but…”

Meister lets him trail off, stepping closer, putting a warm hand on his shoulder. “‘S alright, mech. I’m sure they know how much you love them - I do, and you haven’t said more than a hundred words about ‘em.” 

He gives Prowl the chance to nod before asking, gently, “Your glitch?”

It’s not a conversation Prowl wants to have.

He has to, he knows it. Can’t risk hiding it, and having it put them both in danger - won’t put Jasper’s life, or Meister’s, at risk because of his pride. But…

Meister’s put up with him - with his anger, his panic, his crashes. Meister has been understanding, dismissive, has treated him like he’s an ordinary mech in over his helm. That…

That goes away when he admits that it’s not going to stop. That he’s damaged.

“The issue with my ATS isn’t with the tactical system - it’s a processor-level glitch.” It’s better to get it out quickly, get it over with. “That’s what causes me to crash. Has been causing me to crash.”

He bows his helm. “My processor was designed for mass-throughput data handling - in the realm of Pb/s. It has multiple high-bandwidth databusses, to accommodate such large volumes.”

Concern runs through Meister’s field, thick and heavy. “That takes a lot of power, mech. You must - do you need ta fuel before we leave?”

“No.” Prowl can’t help a flicker of affection at that - at the thought that the assassin cares enough to check - but he presses it down, pulling away from the other mech’s touch. “To account for the power consumption, the ATS automatically throttles down when not in use. It is not normally an issue - the system is designed to re-open bandwidth as required for datawork.”

“I’m sensing a but.” He can feel Meister’s gaze on him, but he can’t look up. He doesn’t want to see…

Well. “But sudden stimuli, _unanticipated_ stimuli, can cause my processor to begin sending data for analysis before bandwidth is available. The data that gets through is fragmented - incomplete - but the ATS doesn’t register that. It begins to make erroneous connections…”

“And once your processor has the bandwidth to send the rest of it, the ATS builds on the errors and crashes you.”

It’s not an inaccurate summation of the issue. Prowl nods mutely.

“I crashed you. That first time.” Meister’s voice is soft. “Was that the glitch?” 

Shame floods his field - he can’t keep it down anymore. “Yes.”

Meister doesn’t say anything, waiting for an explanation, and Prowl shutters his optics. “You said… you said that it was a personal matter. I interpreted it to mean… that somehow I had crossed you, personally, and that you’d come to kill me for it.” He can’t hide the minute shake in his wings at that.

“I… My processor fired - I was trying to figure out what I might have done, and… my processor transferred to the ATS before it could load. The crash was building from the moment you said that. It can - there’s a klik or two, after the crash starts to build, where a cabled-in mech can clear the buildup, but it’s too short to intervene if I’m not already linked up. I just… I know it’s happening, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“You said it was painful.” Meister’s voice is very soft. “In your bathroom. You saw me, and locked up - you were tryin’ ta figure out how I got in, what I was up to, and you couldn’t stop the crash but you locked your frame up so you wouldn’t fall. You already knew you were crashing.”

He nods again. There’s nothing to say.

“Slag, mech. I’m sorry.” Suddenly, Meister’s hand is back, resting gently against his shoulder - and then the assassin’s arms are around him, and Prowl can’t bring himself to resist as he’s pulled into a warm embrace. Meister’s field flickers against his, a bewildering mix of emotions - apology, and pity, and regret, but none of the revulsion he’d been expecting. He hesitates for only a moment, knowing that Meister can feel his shame, his embarrassment - but he can’t resist the comfort being offered. He sinks into Meister’s hold, letting the other mech support him against the table, and lets himself be held.

“S’ alright, mech. Ain’t gonna hurt you.” He hadn’t thought the other mech would, but the words are still soothing, on a deep, almost spark-deep level. Meister never has, not after saying that. “Ain’t gonna hurt you. Ain’t gonna judge.” 

He can feel it as Meister settles his field, wrapping around him, deeply comforting. Just having another mech this close is comforting - he hasn’t been held like this since Iacon, since _Bluestreak_ -

Meister guides him down, until they’re both sitting on the floor. The assassin is silent, almost still - easy to track, one hand running soothingly over a wing while the other rubs at his shoulder.

“I got a sigma ability, mech.” It’s a non sequitur, but also… reciprocity. “My hardware’s always quiet - it ain’t a mod. It’s a field - extends about half a decimeter from my frame followin’ the curve of my field.”

It’s a solid sigma ability, useful, powerful - not strong enough to be an alpha ability, but Meister has put it to use in the exact right line of work. Prowl doesn’t interrupt - doesn’t have anything he’d rather say than listen to Meister’s calm, steady voice.

“Got a mod to go with it - nothing as useful as your tac, but… Had a friend install a sonic array, way back. Before I was an assassin. You saw what it did, ta Feldspar and his mechs?”

That _is_ enough to get him to react. “That was an _inbuilt sonic emitter?_ ” He can’t keep his jaw from dropping. “That was - the room was shredded! We had reports coming in about a bombing from the other side of the city!”

Meister chuckles. “Yeah, sorry about that - got a little heated, maybe a little carried away. Point is, I know what it’s like to have a mod that slags you just as much as it helps… I burned 71% of my energon reserves in three kliks, and had to spend the next three cycles getting my baffles redone and all o’ my fine sensors rewired. Only reason I can even survive it is my sigma. Point is, I ain’t gonna judge just cause you have some systems conflict with a mod - I went the opposite way, got myself a mod I can’t even use without blowing out my systems.”

It’s… he can see the similarity, he’s made the same arguments before, but… “Most mechs don’t see it that way. It’s fine when they think the ATS is crashing - once they find out it’s a glitch, it’s something else entirely.”

“Nah, mech. I’m not gonna hold it against you. All I need to know is - are you gonna be able to handle a raid? ‘Cause it’s just gonna be me and you - I ain’t gonna be able to get you out of there if you go down.”

Prowl stiffens, at that - but it’s not more than he expected. Maybe not even more than he deserves.

“I’ve never crashed on a mission for the enforcers.” But no, that’s not a fair standard to set. “I… understand if you’d rather I not be involved. When the ATS is online and active, I _can’t_ crash - it’s only when it cycles down that I’m at risk. The buildup can’t happen if there’s open bandwidth.”

“Then that’s fine.” The easy dismissal makes something twist in Prowl’s chest, surprise and relief twining together into something else entirely. “We’ll bring a couple extra cubes, keep you fueled up so it’s not a problem.”

“I will be… terse.” Prowl relaxes slightly, but it’s only fair to warn him about this, too. “I have been… emotionally unsteady, this morning. I received the ATS with my youngling upgrades; I have no memories of a time before it was installed. It… isn’t a glitch, as such, but when it is online, it handles some of my emotional subprocessing; without it, I am less stable. When it is fully-active, it suppresses emotions significantly.”

“Do you get hostile?” Some mechs do, when their emotional processes are suppressed, but Prowl shakes his helm.

“Never. Formal. Stiff.” He quirks a small, self-depricating smile. “I am, I have been informed, a bit of an aft. I may be less communicative, also - it is hard to remember that other mechs cannot anticipate my actions the way I am anticipating theirs. It should not be an issue - I have worked with other enforcers, in teams and pairs, for centivorns. I am much better at it now than I once was.”

“I’m good at improvising. I’ll work with it.” Meister grins. “You good, mech?”

Prowl vents. “Better. I’m going to bring the ATS online - like I said, I’ll stabilize quickly with it active.”

“Sounds good. I’m gonna grab a couple more things, and then we should get moving - Ratch’ll be able to take care of your nanites when he’s fixing up, and we’ll need ta talk things over with him while we wait for Klax’ ta send us the camera linkups.”

Prowl nods his assent as he begins the boot sequence for his ATS - watches Meister work his way around the room, scooping up a handful of tools, a few different blades, as the system onlines fully. He vents heavily as it engages - the feeling is a relief, the world slotting back into place around him, as the roil of anxiety that’s been keeping him off-balance dissipates. By the time Meister looks back at him, ready, he’s steady again, and rises to his pedes.

“Let’s go.” He says, and follows Meister out into the bright light of the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha! Our two idiots, openly talking about their problems! It's not entirely unlike _progress!_
> 
> And I finally get to turn Prowl's ATS on, which, no lie, is a relief. I love writing wumf, sure, but tbh if I had to write much more emotionally-vulnerable Prowl I was gonna start having issues with it. TBH, he's not really explaining the full extent of how bad things are right here, not through omission but just because it's so normalized to him. Still, it's a big deal to tell Meister it's a glitch - they're heavily-stigmatized in a way that even processor-damage isn't - and we get some explicit explanation of the crashes, as well. With it back on, we return to out more analytical Prowl, at last.
> 
> And a little more insight into Meister's world! Who is the mysterious Klax- Red Alert. It's Red Alert. We all knew it was Red Alert. :D The real Oracle of the piece - he does the hacking, Ratchet runs the missions. He's gonna be a bit-character, tragically - I love him, but there's only so much room for characters, and so he was mercilessly cut for time.
> 
> I will probably at some point pull this chapter apart and re-stitch it; I feel like there are some pacing issues, but eh, I'm just keeping the story moving at this point.
> 
> Let me know what you think! One more chapter, and then we get some more action - they're gonna go hit up Ratchet, and then it's on to the raid. 
> 
> Also, I'll give y'all the title of the 5-and-1, since folks were speculating and I'm pumped for it: it's gonna be Five Times Jazz Slips the Hounds - and One Time Prowl Gets Caught. I'm figuring it'll be around 8k words, so nice and tight, and it'll be the bridge to the "final act" of the main story, which looms on the horizon like only a 50k word multichapter fic can. :D Once I'm done with that, I'm gonna be filling in the world a bit more, so it's not the end of the adventure or anything - but aaa am I hype for it!


	3. Chapter 3

As Prowl follows him out of the factory, Meister gives a little flick of his hip, and there’s the whir of a transformation sequence as the assassin’s colors shift. More than just the colors, Prowl realizes, as white spills across the smaller mech’s frame, black switching from matte to glossy as blue and red lines twist into place across his chest - Meister’s whole frame shifts, subtly, armor moving and resculpting, limbs shortening as claws retract and are replaced by Jazz’s blunt fingertips, shoulders broadening as even his gait changes from Meister’s smooth, rolling stride to one more buoyant. The only thing that remains unchanged is the assassin’s sigma-gifted silence - and then, with the soft pop of a speaker onlining, even that disappears as the artificial sound of an engine begins to growl softly from beneath his plating.

The entire transformation sequence is a work of art - it takes only moments, but the mech who turns to smile back at him over his shoulder hardly resembles the assassin at all. Only vorns of experience let Prowl see the similarities - the same sweeping curves, the heavy-duty secondary cabling in the shoulders that gives away the sound system hidden under his plating, the handful of shared, now-recolored, kibble and the matching glass. 

“Impressive.” He says it softly, leaning in as he follows, and Meister gives a flirty laugh.

“You know it, mech. Optics on the bumper, I’ll get you over to Ratch’s.” The personality shift is no less remarkable - Meister flips down into his vehicle alt with a cheeky wink, and Prowl is left half-stalled at the sudden switch. He obligingly folds into his own alt, maintaining a respectful, non-aggressive distance as he follows Meister back out onto the highway.

He takes precaution not to look like he’s following the other mech - no need to damage ‘Jazz’s’ reputation any more than he already has with his stunt in the park. As soon as traffic allows, he slips over two lanes, until he’s one short of the median, relying on his passive sensors to track Meister. The traffic isn’t dense as they make their way through the city, and he lets Meister get ahead of him significantly - by the time the assassin signals his exit, he’s far enough ahead that Prowl has no issue crossing lanes over to follow him down.

It’s not the area he was expecting - Silver Street isn’t a slum, but… it’s close. Unclaimed territory - rather than one of the gang lords ruling over it, it’s left to whichever unaffiliated gangs can keep it under control. He checks the Enforcer database - currently, that’s the Yoopers, a mid-sized cargo gang who’ve worked their way in from the docks. Not particularly threatening - cargo gangs generally avoid the more reckless violence signature of street gangs, and most will stay clear of enforcers in favor of protecting their more honest employment.

Still, it’s not the sort of area he’d expect a talented medic to set up in - and, judging by the repairs to his wings, this Ratchet is a very talented medic.

Meister leads him almost to the center of the district before turning down an alley. The clinic is… surprising. It’s not in bad condition, for this part of town - obviously someone’s cleared the worst of the trash from around the entrance, and there’s a bench that looks like it was stolen welded to the wall beside the steps; even the wall looks like it’s only been a couple decavorns since it last saw a coat of enamel. There’s a sign above the door - “Praxus Free Clinic” - and a mark that looks like the emblem of the Iaconi Medical Guild so buried under gang scratch that it’s hard to be sure. The most recent is three interlocked circles, marker of - he checks it - the Yoopers. _Protected._

It’s not surprising - no sane gang is going to threaten a medic deigning to work in their territory. Much less - and he can still hardly believe that one exists - a ‘free clinic’.

As far as he knows, there are only three in Praxus, and this isn’t one of them. Still, he resists the urge to update the file - there’s no requirement a licensed medic register their workspace with the city, and Ratchet certainly has his reasons for avoiding the attention. 

Meister unfolds just as gracefully out of his vehicle mode as he had folded into it, gesturing up at the building with a beam and a bow. “My doc.” He waits for Prowl to transform before bounding up the stairs, and the strange energy makes Prowl almost flinch back before he follows.

It dissipates as they shut the door behind them, scuffing their pedes clean in the antechamber as Meister calls out, “Hey, Ratch, you’re in, right?”

“Yeah, come in.” The voice from the other room is deep and brassy - an ambulance, perhaps, or a hauler. Meister gestures for Prowl to follow, and rounds the corner.

Ambulance, then - the boxy, clean lines of the frametype are unmistakable and vaguely comforting, even if the red-and-white markings and emergency lights weren’t enough to give the mech’s function away. “Ah, hello, officer - hello, Jazz. A pleasure to see you - how can I help you, officer?”

The medic’s optics are guarded - he’s wary. Prowl hesitates - he’s not sure what to say, what Meister’s relationship is with the medic, who doesn’t seem to be interested in acknowledging their previous interaction -

“Hey, Ratch. You got any patients back there?” Ratchet shakes his helm curtly at that, not taking his gaze off Prowl. His hands are hidden by the counter, and Prowl has the sudden, itching realization that the medic is reaching for a gun - he steps back, hands going up, as Meister vaults over the counter and sees the same thing.

“Woah, woah, woah, Ratchet!” The gun comes up, a scattershot rifle, and Meister’s optics go almost white with surprise. “He’s with me, mech, he’s good -”

A heavy-duty engine rumbles a snarl. “You brought him _to my clinic?_ ” The medic’s optics don’t waver, and neither does the muzzle of the rifle.

Meister grimaces. “Yeah, I know, I know, Ratchet - listen, put the gun down, we’re in a rush.” 

Ratchet growls again, and Prowl, frozen, can see him adjust his aim, grip on the gun firming, as if readying to -

But Meister snarls, and shoves the barrel away, and Prowl scrambles to take cover below the counter as the assassin grabs the medic’s throat in a clawed hand. 

“I don’t think you heard me, Ratch - _we_ are in a damned hurry. Put the slagging gun down - you’re not shooting my cop.” Meister’s voice is half-savage, and even from behind the counter Prowl can feel the buffet of fury in his field. “ _Now, Ratchet._ ”

There’s a long, tense moment, and Prowl keeps his helm low, pressed against the cool metal of the counter. It’s too short to hide him fully, but if the medic starts firing…

But Ratchet doesn’t. There’s a huff, and then powerful hauler-grade engines throttle down to a brassy purr, and something rifle-sized clatters to the countertop. Another moment passes - a stare-off? The other two mechs speaking over comms? - and Ratchet’s helm appears over the top of the counter.

“Get off of the floor, then. I won’t shoot you, apparently.” A sturdy arm appears, and Prowl takes the hand he’s offered, letting Ratchet haul him to his pedes with a grunt. “Jazz says you’re going on a rescue mission of some kind? Well, get back here, then - I’ll give you a good looking over, and you two can fill me in.”

Prowl hesitates for just a moment. “I…” He doesn’t want to be boxed in a room with a mech who was trying to kill him a moment ago, is what he wants to say. He settles for, “I thought medics weren’t able to fight?”

Certainly none of the ones deployed with the enforcers ever did…

The medic snorts. “Maybe civilians have that luxury. I’m - I _was_ a soldier. Not about to let one of your lot cause trouble around here, even if Jazz likes you. Had enough troubles with the enforcers around here.”

Meister gives the medic a considering look, then glances at Prowl. “Hey, mech, your -” he waves his hand, “- thing’s runnin’, right?”

Prowl gives him a similar look, tinged with a bit more suspicion, right back. “My ATS? Yes…”

“Great.” Jazz turns to Ratchet with a slag eating grin. “Weren’t you the one tellin’ me to spark him up, Ratch? Thought you’d be a little friendlier.”

Ratchet’s engine makes a colossal, painful-sounding hiccup as the medic chokes and flushes. Prowl can’t hold back a coughing fit as his own engine skips, staring bright-opticked at the assassin’s pleased smirk -

“ _\- What?!_ ”

Ratchet, recovering, takes a swipe at Meister, but the assassin ducks under it, still gleeful, and retreats backwards into the clinic, sing-songing as he goes: “ _In a hur-ry!_ ” The medic snorts in frustration, and looks down at Prowl, who stares up at him half in alarm and half in horror -

“He’s joking, mech. I’ve been putting up with this for _two centivorns. **Good slagging luck.**_ ”

But he doesn’t turn to follow the assassin.

The rifle sits on the counter between them like a threat. Prowl is confident he’d be fast enough to grab it first - but Ratchet is larger than him, with a medic’s strength, and this close, Prowl can see the augmented military-grade plating of a soldier. Without the power of a real projectile behind it, the scattershot will do next to nothing to the medic, leaving him free to close distance and use his superior frame against Prowl - and, looking up at the red and white mech, he can see Ratchet making the same calculations, coming to the same conclusions.

The medic looks up at him, optics narrowing. “You going to rat me out, cop?”

Prowl shakes his helm. “I’m here because Meister brought me, nothing more. You’re both doing me a huge favor, Ratchet. I won’t pretend not to know that.” He can’t help glancing away, not wanting to meet the medic’s optics. “I’m not going to tell anyone anything - that’s the least of what I owe you. And it’s not like there’s anyone in Praxus worth telling.”

“Hmmph.” Ratchet reaches out and picks up the rifle. Prowl ruthlessly suppresses the urge to dive for cover as the medic hefts it - and then drops it into subspace with a low grumble of his engines. “I suppose I won’t shoot you, then. Come on - Jazz says he got a couple of good hits in on you. I want to at least make sure you’re not following him around all cycle on a cracked strut.”

Prowl follows the medic back behind the counter, and down a cramped hall. The clinic is tiny, but well-laid out - it’s obvious that Ratchet, or whomever set it up, had experience working in cramped quarters. Everything Prowl passes is neat and well-organized - even the small exam room Ratchet ushers him into.

“Up on the berth.” Prowl obliges, and Ratchet almost hisses as his cracked optic catches the light. A hand reaches out to catch his chin, tilting his helm back so the medic can better see - Ratchet probes the bruised metal around the optic with a growl, but his touch is light and professional. There’s no pain at all as he conducts his examination. “Slag. Jazz, you’re a dense fragger.”

The medic steps back with a glare at the assassin, and moves over to a drawer, flipping through the dozens of bags it contains. “I can’t say if I have your lens shape, let alone the color - and you’re on a time limit? I’ll do what I can, but this may need to be a patch job until I have a chance to -”

“No need.” Prowl raises his hands submissively when Ratchet twists to glare at the interruption. “I’m an enforcer - I carry spare lenses on me, in case they need to be replaced in the field. I have a match.”

“Slaggin _good._ ” Ratchet slides the drawer closed with a bang. “Seen way too many mechs go blind around here ‘cause they don’t want to wait to have a cracked lens fixed. It’s a lot more expensive to replace the optic, I’ll tell you - and it wastes a lot more of my time.” 

He returns and holds out his hands. It takes Prowl only a few moments to find the lenses in his subspace, a thin black case with slots for three for each optic. He’s used two on the right side - the left, however, has all three, and Ratchet uses a delicate silicone-tipped pair of tweezers to examine each one before selecting one and lowering it carefully into a small tub of solvent.

“Alright. Deactivate the optic.” Prowl obeys, not merely offlining it but powering down the whole optical array - preventing the delicate parts from moving while exposed. The tool Ratchet lifts to his helm is like a suction cup - even with the optic deactivated, the rest of his facial plating is sensitive enough to feel the pressure as it suctions onto the old lens.

A narrow, wedge-shaped tool is next, Ratchet working it around the edge of the lens with brisk flicking motions - detaching the gasket holding it in place. It’s quick, expert work - in moments, he’s pulling away with the intact, damaged lens, and leaning forwards with a penlight to examine the inner optic. 

“Otherwise in good condition.” He sounds pleased. “Doesn’t look like you’ve had any shoddy repairs, at least. And Jazz didn’t do any damage. Shouldn’t take more than a few kliks to have the new lens in.”

It doesn’t - Ratchet works quickly but professionally setting in the new gasket before performing the same procedure in reverse to lock the lens into place. He gives it a couple taps, then a few careful presses, before settling back on his heels with a satisfied hum. 

“Should be good. Online the optic, tell me how it looks.”

Prowl does - first locked-down to keep it from irising, then, once his systems confirm that there’s no debris obstructing it, letting it cycle back into focus. “It seems to be in order. Thank you, Ratchet - you do good work.”

“The best, and don’t you forget it.” The complement seems to have mollified the medic, however - his frame is more relaxed as he turns to rinse his tools. “Anything else hurt?”

“Just some soreness.” Prowl shakes his helm. “The optic was the worst of it.”

“Hmmph.” Ratchet grunts, unimpressed, but turns to glance at Meister. “You must like him, then. When was the last time someone got in a fight with you and walked out of it with ‘some soreness’?”

He turns his attention back to Prowl, ignoring the way Meister’s plating has flared defensively at his words. “I’ll give you a couple protometal anti-inflammatories for the ache. Should be well gone by tonight, if it’s just bruising - if it’s not, I’ll give you a pain chit for the worst of it, and we can sort it out tomorrow. Scans aren’t showing anything significant, so you should be good to go, medically speaking.”

Prowl nods. “Thank you. I think it should be fine - I’ve been bruised enough chasing joy-riders to know what it feels like, and there’s nothing irregular.”

“Good. Now how about this mech of yours - Jasper? Meister mentioned that he’d been roughed up - you got anything beyond that, or are we going off what those thugs described?”

Prowl obediently packages the videos and stills he’s got into a file, and then hesitates.

“I’ll need your comms.” He glances at Meister. “Both of you, if you’re alright with that? If we’re going to be infiltrating Rhodolite’s base together…”

The two glance at each other, and a moment later, there’s a buzz against his short-broadcast receivers, and two comms codes are dumped into his active storage. He sets up channels to each, then to both, and beams a tight data-packet to both mechs. 

It comes back to him without significant loss, and a moment later, he shares the file. 

Ratchet pings him back acknowledgement, and his optics go distant, reviewing the video. After a moment, he shakes his helm with a vent. 

“Eh, it’s not the worst I’ve seen. Provided they haven’t done worse to him, he’ll live. Windshield’s cosmetic, on a mini like him; throat’s the worst of it, as far as I can see.” He gives the vid another critical examination. “If that’s as bad as it is, he’ll be able to walk out. Get him down to the train station, put him on a shuttle to Iacon. I’ve got an old student with a clinic down there - I’ll call in some favors, Aid’ll be more than happy to take him in and patch him up.”

“And if it’s worse?” Prowl doesn’t want to contemplate it, but the ATS needs to understand the variables - and he needs some kind of plan. Improvisation has never been his strong suit, and the idea of going into this with no idea of what to do if it goes wrong for Jasper is enough to make stress start to build in his processor.

“Keep in touch. I have… a lot of friends, in Iacon. No one will think much of me leaving town for a few days - I can lock up here and meet you at the station. Once we’re on board, they have private booths - it won’t be the least comfortable place I’ve had to stick a minibot for emergency surgery.”

Meister, for a moment, looks tempted to ask, but he shakes his helm instead. “Sounds good. So, one way or the other, it’s the train station, unless one of us is dyin’. I assume we’re doin’ the usual if one of us is dyin’?”

“Obviously.” Ratchet glances over at Prowl. “The usual is, haul your afts back here by whatever means necessary. I’ve got some pull around here, even if I don’t show it - it’ll mean leaving the city, but I can keep the devil off the doorstep for a while at least. I’ll weld you back together and we _all_ blow out of here for Iacon.”

“Bear in mind, we’ve never had to do it.” Meister grins. “Try not ta be the one that gets us ridden out of here, alright?”

Prowl nods. “I am, in fact, experienced with raids, and to a lesser extent infiltration. I _am_ actually good at my job.”

Ratchet gives a disbelieving snort, and Prowl can feel his whole plating bristle at the sound. He turns to the medic, wings raising in an almost involuntarily aggressive posture, but the medic has an unimpressed look on his face.

“Yeah, about that. I don’t suppose you have any, you know - _useful_ abilities?” The medic’s face is flat, but he flairs his armor to mirror Prowl’s. “A talent with lockpicks, or proficiency in Base Hand? You know - things that might be immediately helpful?” His voice is acidic enough to cut steel.

“Of course I speak Hand. Iaconi Enforcers are required to speak at least three cultural languages beyond Neocybex - Hand is popular due to the large Empuratae population compared to other major cities. They won’t speak to anyone who doesn’t use it, even if they can talk.” Prowl pauses. “I am also fluent in Vosian ‘Cant and the Primal Vernacular.”

He bobs his doorwings indicatively - it’s a _filthy_ curse in ‘Cant - and is surprised to see a shocked, almost scandalized look cross the medic’s face - apparently Ratchet has, at some point, at least had enough contact with Seekers to understand _that._ But the medic choses to take something else away from the conversation entirely.

“Wait, you trained in Iacon?”

Prowl nods obligingly. “Of course. My older brother was stationed there at the time, and I lived with him and my younger while I trained. A few vorns after I certified, I was transferred to Praxus, and a few vorns after my younger brother certified, Smokescreen was transferred to Rodion, and then Crystal City.” Ratchet looks surprised at that, so he elaborates: “Most enforcers don’t transfer that often, but all three of us are specialists - I expect that if snipers weren’t so needed in Iacon, for guarding Primal appearances, Bluestreak would also have been transferred.”

Something flickers across Ratchet’s face at the mention of the Prime - but it’s quickly gone, and many mechs dislike the Primacy for one reason or another. Praxus is a good city, for that - the eyes of the Prime are rarely on the city, and few mechs concern themselves much with the Primal Edict.

Ratchet gives him another evaluating look, and turns to Meister. “He might actually keep up, then. I know Ultra Magnus - he trains good mechs. I’ll buy him a drink next time I see him, if he manages to keep the two of you alive.”

Prowl can see the way the medics frame has relaxed at the news. He can’t fault the mech for that, as much as it rankles - Praxus’ training for enforcers can be… lackluster. It tends to be communal, with recruits working their way through the more-established enforcers as trainers - and, with the caliber of enforcers he works with...

The medic huffs. “Well. Either way, I’ll clear you for this little mission. Try not to get your limbs blown off.”

Meister gives a laugh - the sort of laugh that tells Prowl there’s a story there. The medic huffs his vents, glancing at the assassin before returning his gaze to Prowl.

“Now, as charming an idea as it might be to keep _you_ ,” he thrusts the wrench at Prowl, “hostage so that _he_ ,” a matching thrust at Meister, “behaves himself… I should probably have my Conjux swing by, if we have to kill two joors. I don’t know what he’ll have on hand,” a pause, and the distant, fond look of a bondmate communicating with their bonded, “and now, I _do_ know what he has on hand, and he should be able to rig a few decent baffles together while we wait for R-Klaxon.”

A grin splits Meister’s face in an instant, and he bounds to his feet with an exuberance that surprises both of the other mechs in the room. “Jackie time!” He turns the grin on Prowl, optics bright. “You’re gonna love this.”

Prowl hesitates. “Baffles?” 

“So _he_ -” Ratchet thrusts the wrench again, “- doesn’t kill you if he has to use his mods. He told you about that, right?” He waits for the nod. “Anyways, it’ll still slag you properly, but Wheeljack says that he has the stuff on hand to at least protect your helm from the worst of the blast.”

“My helm won’t be the problem, if what Meister described is accurate.” Prowl shrugs his doorwings indicatively. “These are my primary sensor busses. Anything capable of doing damage like he described will be crippling, unless you can protect these - I will be debilitated beyond the point of moving, probably into stasis.”

Ratchet eyes the doorwings. They’re not delicate by any means - Prowl has been in too many firefights to leave them unarmored, and the extra plating has left them thick and heavy compared to an ordinary Praxian’s. Even the window is visibly different, a thick, tinted blue pane that has the distinctive sheer of bulletproof glass. But all the physical reinforcement in the world won’t prevent ultrasonics from shredding the delicate sensors beneath.

Prowl doesn’t flinch as the medic reaches out, testing the thick cables at the base of one wing, and rises obediently when Ratchet gestures for him to turn. There’s a wash of cool static along both wings as the medic conducts a scan, and Ratchet hums thoughtfully.

“Only a few joor… I could install a cut-off.” He glances at Prowl, looking for a reaction in his patient’s expression, but Prowl does his best to stay flat - pushing down the instinctive rejection of a strange medic working on his wings to at least hear the other mech out. “A bypass, hard-cabled in at the base of your wings. Trigger it, and it’d cut off the connection to your processor physically - it wouldn’t prevent damage, as such, but you wouldn’t have to deal with the pain.”

“I would still be crippled. Almost 80% of my sensory array routes through my doorwings; I would be almost completely deaf, and unable to track other mechs around me.”

“80% is… high.” Ratchet gives a huff. “I don’t have a better option for you, honestly. With an orn, maybe, but in a few joor… Deaf and lost is better than screaming on the floor in agony.” 

“I’m not opposed to the idea.” Prowl hastens to reassure him. “But I don’t want to disabuse you of my own vulnerabilities. If Meister is to use his sonic abilities -”

The assassin cuts in. “It’s the last option, mech. Something I only use when the whole vorn is going to pit - I’d say I use it on less than one in ten missions. And remember, your mech isn’t gonna have any shielding at all - by the time I’m usin’ it, we’ve got bigger problems.” He glances up at Ratchet. “Wasn’t gonna use it at all, Ratch. I can’t haul two sparking frames outta Rhodolite’s den alone.”

“I won’t send you in without all the options, Jazz.” Ratchet’s gaze is steady. “If you have to sacc the mission… either way, I expect _you_ back.” 

The coldness in his voice is enough to make Prowl’s spark seize, but the ATS whispers scenarios, and he knows the medic is right.

“He’s right.” He keeps his voice low. “If something comes up, and we can’t get Jasper out, or you can’t get me out, whoever’s left will need the best chance of surviving. I’ll take the cuttoff -”

He turns to Ratchet, and the medic’s optics are dark but approving. “- and whatever baffles your conjux can give me. If worse comes to worse, it’ll give me time to make… other arrangements… before Rhodolite can catch up to me.”

“Slag.” Meister’s voice is tight. “You two really know how to bring a mech down. We ain’t gonna be making ‘other arrangements’, mech - Jackie’s gonna pop some baffles in you, _just in case_ , and then we’re gonna walk in there, kick aft, and walk out with your mech.”

Ratchet glances over at him, a concerned look - and then straightens, forcefully relaxing his plating. “Of course. And the bypass will be worthwhile, regardless - if I had been your primary medic, I would have installed one when I repaired your doorwings last time.”

“Will I need to be offline for the installation?”

“Not for the baffles.” Ratchet shakes his helm. “For the doorwings, definitely. It shouldn’t take more than a joor and a half - plenty of time for Wheeljack to get here and set up. I can have him wait until you’re online again to start, if you’d prefer.”

“I would.” He settles back on the berth, letting Ratchet adjust it around him until his wings are loose and low. Ratchet has already proven… at least skilled with doorwings, and Meister obviously trusts him, but the mech’s conjux is an unknown, and the thought of letting a medic he’s never met work under his armor is unnerving, at least. “Once I’m awake, we’ll have to discuss strategies. How much longer do you anticipate -”

\- anticipate Klaxon taking, is what he means to say, but Ratchet plugs into him, and with a flash of medical overrides, the world around him goes dark, and he doesn’t say anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! I had fun with this chapter. I wound up splitting it into two sections as it neared 7k words, so there'll be a part two with Wheeljack, Ratchet's _terrible inventor husband_ and the cheerful Lucius Fox of this AU. The mech, the myth, the legend behind many dumb, war-crime-adjacent things... including Jazz's sonic weapons, which Ratchet will never forgive him for. Although, to be fair, Jazz wasn't an assassin at the time (as he mentioned last chapter), so... ??? How did these three (four, if you count Red Alert) dumb young thots meet? IDK. You'll figure it out.
> 
> But yeah, Ratchet's kind of aggro. Sure it's fun to tease Meister about his sexy kidnapping victim, but it's a lot less fun when you've got a cop you don't know _who knows about your secret murder-based side hobby_ gets dragged into your office, I guess. :D They'll warm up to each other eventually, I'm sure!
> 
> And I've corrected some errors from last part here, too. I moved Jazz giving Prowl his comm signal to this chapter, because, as the lovely Magnolia_in_black_Velvet reminded me, there's a comms blocker on Jazz's warehouse. I'm gonna go edit that section in a bit, to make it all line up better - I've been stuck doing a lot of driving around, which is why I haven't gotten to it yet, but it should be done before I post the next chapter.
> 
> And yes, Jazz once again calls Prowl "his cop"! Will they catch on to the fact that they're into each other? Has Jazz fucking with Ratchet traumatized Prowl into the life of a Virgin of Primus? Find out next time, I guess!
> 
> Comments, as always, are my first love, my passion, the sun as it rises and sets - oh god i'm so lonely :D I've got at least another week until I'm back at work, I think, so I should be able to finish this story and the 5-and-1 before I get dragged back, if I'm lucky - thank goodness! (Although tbh I'd love to finish the whole thing :D I'm enjoying my time off...)


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing that registers as he’s brought out of medical stasis is the press of Ratchet’s processor against his - the soothing touch of a calm medic. It’s the most relieving feeling in the world - he’s come around to panic before, in the midst of firefights, where the medic’s processor is fighting for focus, but a calm medic means safety, and safety means he can bring himself back online slowly.

The second thing that registers is the file.

It’s not huge - only a few dozen gigabytes - but it’s sitting in his processor, and _he doesn’t know how it got there._ He scans it, and it comes up clean - there’s no signature, though, and no markers for how it was transmitted. His comm logs indicate how it was received, at least, but the receipt is timestamped almost a joor ago, when - and he cross-checks his logs to confirm it - he was in medical stasis, unable to receive comms.

He reaches out to Ratchet’s processor, pushes the file at him. With his own processor still booting, it’s all he can do to ping the medic with a wordless ::Query?:: - but he’s on the edge of panicking over the strange file already, he needs to know - 

Ratchet turns his attention to the file, scans it, and there’s a flash of ::Approval; safety; confirmed sender.:: It’s not an answer, but it’s enough to make him relax for the moment - if the medic’s superior grasp of coding is telling him it’s safe, he can wait until his speech centers are online to investigate further.

They come up slowly - he doesn’t force it. He’ll need the stability of a slow boot on the raid, tonight. Eventually, he has enough of a grasp of language to online his vocalizer - Ratchet has already withdrawn from his processor - and choke out, “File - unknown sender. Who?”

Ratchet holds him down as he tries to sit up.

“Klaxon. He sent us the link-ups for the cameras. Said he had something for you, too - I didn’t realize he meant he’d be dumping it while you were unconscious, or I’d have said something to him. You can relax - whatever he’s sent, it’ll be clean.”

“Is he a technopath?” The news that they had anticipated the file is enough to make him relax, but… The hacker wouldn’t have to be a technopath to send data via a hacked comm, of course, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t, and the thought of another mech’s mind unknowingly inside his own while he was unconscious makes him squirm.

“No. Just real good.” Meister grins. “The best. Probably sent you the blueprints you wanted - I’ve got a copy, if he didn’t. Klax prefers to communicate with everybody individually - likes to know who he’s working with.”

“Try offlining your wings.” The third voice is a new one, and Prowl’s helm shoots up, scanning for the third speaker. “Woah, woah, woah - didn’t mean to startle you, mech! Ratch just needs to check the cutoff!”

The figure is tall, with an elegant white frame lined in orange and green. He’s got the graceful, fan-like limbs of a Protohexian, and a pair of sweeping ansibles to match, flickering as he speaks. On his lap is a tray, full of black discs attached to small, flat metal cones that he continues to carefully examine with his hands, even with his optics on Prowl.

“Wheeljack?” he asks, and even from across the room he can feel the mech’s field flicker with embarrassment.

“Whatever they told you, I promise it’s only half as bad as they made it sound.” He grins.

Prowl cocks his helm at the strange response. “They didn’t tell me much.” He gestures at Ratchet after a moment. “They told me that he was your conjux. Even if it’s only half as bad as it sounds, you have my condolences.”

There’s silence for a klik. Then only the bark of Meister’s laugh is enough to distract from Ratchet’s indignant growl, the medic’s optics bright and narrow - and then Wheeljack himself is laughing, and his conjux gives a heavy, frustrated vent.

“I should have shot you.”

Wheeljack’s laughter pauses, almost abruptly. “He threatened to shoot you?” At Prowl’s hesitant nod, he lets out a cackle that puts his previous laughter to shame, and Meister scrambles to grab the tray of disks before they can fall to the floor.

Ratchet lets out another irritated grumble, too quiet to be heard over the other mech’s laughter, and Wheeljack lets out a soft burble that Prowl recognizes, a moment later, as Protohexian. He’s not familiar enough with the language to parse it through a translator, and Meister looks just as lost as he is, but Ratchet seems to understand well enough, answering with a huff in the same fluid language.

Wheeljack seems to settle, with bright optics, as he answers back, but there’s still a softening smile on his face. Ratchet huffs again, armor loosening and then clamping indignantly, but he leans back just a touch in his chair, and -

\- and that, along with whatever Wheeljack said, appears to be enough, the green-striped mech rising and crossing the room in a single stride to straddle the medic’s knee and capture his lips in a deep kiss.

More than his lips, Prowl realizes after a moment and a flash of glossa, and the only relief he has as he scrambles to look somewhere - _anywhere_ \- else is that his horrified expression is mirrored perfectly on Meister’s face.

“We’ll just… go.” The assassin hesitates, rising from his chair, optics locked on Prowl’s in obvious fear of what he might see if he looks away, and Prowl nods in wordless agreement, but before they can make their escape, Ratchet pulls away from the kiss.

“Ah ah ah. You, sit. Prowl still needs the baffles installed, and we need a plan.” He leans in and presses his lips to Wheeljack’s, this time in a softer, chaste kiss, before brushing the smaller mech from his lap. Wheeljack scrambles to his pedes, ansibles flushing a deep energon-pink at the reminder that other mechs are in the room with them. He doesn’t meet Prowl’s optics as he takes back his tray from Meister.

“Ah… I’m going to need to install these -” he offers the tray, and Prowl takes one of the disks to examine, “- under your armor. They’ve got to go around specific sensor clusters, to cushion the vibrations - Ratchet, could we maybe have some privacy?”

The older medic rises with a nod. “Come on, Jazz.” He glances over at Prowl. “We’ll sort out the camera maps. You start looking at those blueprints, see what you can see.”

Prowl obediently unzips the file. It’s exactly what Ratchet says - a set of blueprints, good ones, dated back less than a vorn. The formatting is odd, though - it takes him a moment to realize that the files aren’t just neatly organized, they’re neatly organized _to the specs of his own ATS._

He freezes, plating clamping tight. Wheeljack notices immediately - he’s been waving a sensor reader over Prowl’s plating, and he lets out a worried churr. “You alright, mech? I, ah… apologize if me an’ Ratch upset you. I promise, I’m all business. I’m not going to get handsy or anything -”

“You’re _certain_ Klaxon isn’t a technopath?” There are other ways for the hacker to have gotten information about his internal file-structure, but… even the Praxian Enforcers don’t have that sort of intimate knowledge of his processor. The only records remaining would be with the institute that oversaw it’s installation, or with the Iaconi Enforcers who trained him…

“Yeah, I’m dead sure.” Wheeljack seems to have picked up on his anxiety, stepping away with the caution of a mech used to defusing live bombs. “What’s wrong?”

Slowly, Prowl forces himself to relax. Even if Klaxon has hacked his files, it’s… well, it’s a gross violation of his medical privacy, but plenty of mechs have been far more intimate with his processors than he wanted - and, to be fair to the hacker, he’s worked with mechs in that line of work who are far more invasive. He reframes it, letting stress bleed away - the hacker has saved him the time and effort of reformatting the files himself. He pushes them through to the ATS before answering Wheeljack.

“It’s nothing.” The Protohexian looks doubtful at that, and he shrugs, letting his plating loosen. “The file was… in a custom format, one that I have only occasionally shared with others. To have found it, he must have accessed archival medical data that I thought would escape notice. It won’t be a problem.”

Wheeljack vents in surprise at that. “Slag. Mention that to Ratch on your way out, alright? Not before - you’re not gonna want to hear the explosion. Ratch gets real touchy about medical privacy, and he’s not gonna like hearing that Klax’s getting out of line.”

“Like I said, it’s not a problem.” He gives the disc in his hands a better look. “How does this work, exactly?”

“Ah!” Wheeljack perks up right away at the question. “Well, these are clever. They’re designed to fit between your plating and protoform - with the foam up against your protoform, of course - and when things start shaking -” he presses one to his hand, foam side down, and flicks the top of it, “- thump! The foam absorbs the shock and keeps it from resonating through to the sensors!”

“That seems… simple enough.” He pauses. “You invented them?”

“Of course! I’m - oh, did you think I was a medic?” Prowl nods, and the Protohexian shakes his helm, ansibles flashing in amusement, as he begins to loosen the plating at Prowl’s chest. “Nope! I’m an inventor - I designed Jazz’s sonic array, too, and I bet he gave you one of my high-point pistols!”

“This?” Prowl unsubspaces the gun, offering it to the inventor, who takes a look at it and grins. 

“Yep! That’s one of the early ones - we put it together once I realized how sensitive Polyhexians are to heat. He can see mechs straight through the walls, if they’re thin enough - so I figured, why not make it so he can shoot through them, too?” The inventor grins. “I do all sorts of mod-work. It was mostly medical for a while, back when it was just me an’ Ratch, so it’s nice to get back to my roots with some custom weapons.”

“You’re former military too, then?” Wheeljack’s hands are admirably steady as they work. Despite the inventor’s chattiness, it’s easy to tell that his focus is on carefully removing Prowl’s plating.

“Yeah. Worked with Ratch back in the bad ol’ days, fighting the Quints out on the Padalori front. We served under Ultra Magnus together - Ratch said you know him?”

“My commanding officer, back when I was training in Iacon.” 

Wheeljack grins. “Still got that stick up his aft, I’m sure. Good mech, though. Bet he’s happier as a cop than a soldier - he ran a tight ship, back in the day.”

Any inclination to bristle at the disrespect settles as Prowl takes in the obvious fondness in the inventor’s voice. “He is… a remarkable mech. A good teacher, and a fine commander - Iacon is lucky to have him.”

Wheeljack lets out a soft hum at that, laying the last of Prowl’s chest armor aside. “I’m glad to hear it. He deserves to be happy. Me an’ Ratch… well, we lost track of a lot of folks, after the war ended. Didn’t want to stick around Iacon, so… you know how it is. After a while, folks just forget to comm.”

It’s an uncomfortable reminder. How long has it been since _he_ spoke to any of his old unitmates from Iacon? How long has it been since he commed his _brothers?_ The moment of silence stretches between them, long and tight, until, at last, he can bear it no longer.

“Yes, I know how it is.”

Wheeljack works in silence for a moment longer - he’s got a piece of chalk, and is carefully measuring small x’s around Prowl’s two secondary sensor busses. Then he lets out a nervous laugh, ansibles flickering.

“Eh, enough of this dour slag. So Ratch threatened to shoot you, huh? Sorry about that!”

“It wasn’t unreasonable - I understand that, with this sort of secret, a mech might be hesitant to allow an enforcer near them. Foolish, perhaps - although I expect Meister could have disposed of my frame with a minimum of fuss.” Prowl dips his helm in acknowledgement of the assassin’s talent, but Wheeljack snorts in amusement.

“Not with that gun, he wouldn’t. It’s loaded with salt shot - Ratch is a terrible shot, he’d be putting bullets through the wall and into the street if I gave them to him. Wouldn’t have done much more than chipped your paint, even if you took it right across the chest - he was slagging with you.” Wheeljack’s words are low and amused. “Don’t tell Jazz - he insisted that Ratch have some way to defend himself if anyone came knocking.”

“It’s a wise precaution to take, in this part of town. Aren’t you concerned, if he’s only armed with a prop rifle?” It’s a real gun, at least, and that’s enough to scare off most of the riff-raff that might raid a clinic looking for chems or supplies to sell - but there are real threats in Praxus, the sort that won’t be run off by a medic with a weapon that can’t kill.

“Oh, no. The gun’s for show - Ratch’s fought before, but he prefers to use his blades. Most combat medics do.” Wheeljack’s voice lowers even further, still friendly. “The turrets in the ceiling? Now, _those_ are real.”

Prowl looks up at the inventor. The mech’s field is still light and plainly readable, but… “Are you threatening me?” He doesn’t blunt the question.

“What?” Wheeljack steps back, ansibles flaring with surprise, but Prowl only narrows his optics.

“Both Meister and Ratchet have made very clear to me what will happen if I betray you all. And, if we are being honest, the quality of threat has been slipping.” He gestures at the door, and the other two mechs beyond it. “Meister did a wonderful job - a proper kidnapping, tied up helpless in a warehouse with no way to contact the outside world. Even your conjux at least invoked the immediacy of a well-aimed rifle pointed at my spark. But now you’re lowering the bar to turrets, maybe, at some point in the future?”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “I had expected a little more ambition. Perhaps a bomb under my plating?”

Wheeljack’s ansibles are nearly solid with light, his optics wide. “What - threatening? A _bomb?_ I just wanted to tell you about my turrets! They’re neat - it took me joors to figure out how to wire them into the building without the power back-ups reading on a surge map!”

“Oh.” Prowl cycles his optics at the other mech in surprise. “My - ah… my apologies. I had expected -”

Ratchet’s helm comes through the door, obviously alerted to his partner’s surprise by their bond. “Everything alright in here, you two?”

“He thought I was going to put a _bomb under his plating!_ ” Wheeljack’s voice is indignant.

Ratchet lets his optics cycle slowly, and gives a heavy vent as he turns his gaze to Prowl. “And you still let him work on you?” Prowl opens his mouth, not sure of what to say to that - he _hadn’t_ expected Wheeljack to do anything, was goading the mech, but - Ratchet interrupts before he can say anything. “Alright, so, _don’t do that. **Obviously.**_ ”

He returns his attention to Wheeljack. “ _Could_ you stick a bomb to him?” His face is stony, betraying nothing, but even Prowl can feel the unhidden humor in his field as Wheeljack squawks indignantly.

“What - no -”

“Then finish up - we’ve got a pretty good idea of how this is gonna go, but I want Prowl to take a look at what we’ve come up with first.” He vanishes back out into the hall, leaving Wheeljack to gape after him.

It takes a moment for the inventor to return his wide-opticked gaze to Prowl. “I wouldn’t -”

Prowl cuts him off with a gesture, and pushes warmth into his field. “I was teasing, Wheeljack. I thought… well, I’ve been on the end of a number of conversations about the consequences of revealing you three to the enforcers, or the lords - I thought you were being a bit clumsier about it. I wasn’t offended. I understand the danger I could put you in.”

“Oh.” The inventor mulls that over for a moment. “‘S alright, then. As long as you weren’t actually expecting me to wire you up to blow. I haven’t accidentally caused a sub-armor mod to detonate in… oh, thirty centivorns… so I was kind of surprised that you’d heard about my reputation.”

“Your _what?_ ”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

It takes only around half a joor longer for Wheeljack to finish implanting the baffles. They leave the room to find Meister and Ratchet sitting at the front desk, Ratchet in his chair, Meister sprawled across the counter. Prowl rounds the counter to lean across it while Wheeljack makes himself comfortable on his conjux’s knee.

“All set - he should be good to go.” The inventor’s ansibles flash merrily. “Well, no. Not good to go at all, Jazz - you’re going to knock him for a loop and a half if you actually have to use your sonics. But hey!” He perks up a little more. “Good news is, they’ll work for regular explosions, too! Should get you back on your feet a little quicker, at least!”

“And I’ve been assured that _I_ won’t explode.”

That gets a laugh out of Jazz, even as Wheeljack flushes. “Don’ worry, Prowl. I’ve had Jackie stick all sorts of experimental hardware in me, an’ I’ve never blown up.” He pauses. “Caught fire twice, but never blown up. And hey, it’s not like there’s any electrical slag in the baffles to light up, anyways! You’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure.” Tentatively, Prowl reaches out his field until he can sense the very edge of Wheeljack’s - but the inventor just gives him a grin, and it’s obvious that however embarrassed he is, the conversation isn’t enough to bother him. “Ratchet said you had a plan?”

The medic nods at that, leaning forward to activate a projector - gesturing to something, a grid-map of camera locations overlaid onto a surge map overlaid onto a blueprint - and the change is electric: all casualness slips from Meister’s pose as he straightens, visor bright as he shifts his focus to the chart. He and Ratchet go back and forth like a well-oiled machine - outlining pathing options, obstacles, areas likely to be trapped or able to be trapped in turn - and Prowl lets the new input flow over him, pausing only occasionally to interject with a question or his own knowledge.

By the time they’re done explaining, he’s narrowed the two dozen potential paths produced by his ATS using the blueprints to three - he packages them, encrypted, and comms them to all three of the other mechs. All three ping back receipt, and Ratchet and Wheeljack’s optics immediately go dim as they examine the files - only Meister’s gaze remains bright and focused.

He grins when Prowl catches his optic. “Ratch is better at all that than I am. I’ll go with whatever he likes.” Then his face turns serious, and his voice lowers. 

“Whatever else we do, I’d rather not leave Rhodolite alive.” Meister glances across the table at Prowl, as if gauging his response. “She’s a violent mech. I don’t want to risk her targeting you, once she realizes Jasper’s outta her reach - and I don’t like the thought of someone with that much sway bein’ allowed ta make the connection between you and me.” 

“I agree.” Meister looks surprised by the easy concession, but Prowl shakes his helm. “One of my fellow officers sold Jasper out. I’m not sure who, and it’s dangerous for me to go digging - but I’m very sure of it. I’d rather they not have any incentive to look more closely into my actions - and with Rhodolite dead, they’ll keep their helm down. They won’t look if no one’s paying.”

“Fair enough.” Meister shrugs. “You still got my creds, mech?”

Prowl’s doorwings flare with surprise as he realizes that the bucket of cred chips is, in fact, still in his subspace. “My apologies - I didn’t realize -” but Meister shakes his helm, stopping him with a wave as he starts to pull it out.

“Leave it - the chips are clean, no one will trace them back to us. We’ll give it to your mech on his way out of town - should give him enough to get to Ratch’s friend, at least. Performance like that, it’s probably two or three hundred creds, and I can have Klax take care of setting him up once he’s in Iacon.”

Prowl looks at him for a moment, wide-opticked. Then, hesitantly, he opens a comm-line to the other mech, with a glance over at Ratchet and Wheeljack.

::Thank you.::

::It ain't a big deal, Prowl. Ain't gonna let your mech starve to death in Iacon after we go through all this trouble to get him outta Praxus.::

::No, I mean...:: He trails off, uncertain of how to express the thought, but... ::It's been a long time since anyone was willing to help me like this. I... I won't forget that. I know it's a risk, for all of you...::

::You shouldn't have to work alone, Prowl. This city -:: He pauses, but there's something angry simmering under the way he says the words, ::- Praxus, it's rotten inside, but you shouldn't have to fight that alone. You should have... I don't know, other cops, the judges - there should be somebody helping you. I'm sorry it's gotta be us.::

::You're more than I could have asked for, Meister -:: 

::- I'm a killer. We both know that. You're...:: Another long pause, and Meister glances away. ::I'm not ashamed of what I am, Prowl. I'm doin' what this city needs me ta do, bein' what it needs me ta be. But I'm not dumb enough ta think that this is how it's supposed ta be. They should be - should be helpin' you be better than this. City shouldn't need a killer bringing it justice - cop shouldn't need a killer keepin' him safe.::

::I shouldn't. In Iacon, I would have - well, I never would have met you. Ultra Magnus would have torn the city apart before he let an assassin threaten one of his officers.:: He drops his wings deferentially. ::Praxus isn't Iacon, and I would be dead without you. It's... hard, giving up on the system like that - I was raised, trained, to believe in the law and the enforcers. But...::

He hesitates. It's damnably hard to admit. ::You were right, when we first met. You've been right. Justice has to come first - and we need to be that justice, if no one else will.::

Meister looks up at him, and there's something unreadable and sad in the assassin's optics - but then the faintest shadow of a grin flickers across his lips. ::We'll get your mech back, Prowl. I've got you, and you've got me, mech - and maybe you've got a light too bright for this city ta snuff, after all.::

By the time they cut the comm, Ratchet and Wheeljack are looking between them, optics once again alert - and Meister gives them a grin like the full force of a sun.

"Clock's ticking, mechs. Eleven joors. What've we got?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! And finally, we get to the appearance of the most-requested character since the start of this section of the story - a character who I knew, as soon as I brought them up back in Chapter One, would press heavily on people's minds until I got back to them, spurring countless excited mentions in the comments as people eagerly anticipated their next appearance: the fucking bucket of cred chips. Oh, and I guess Wheeljack shows up, too, so that's pretty alright.
> 
> And Prowl finally _goes off!_ Yeah, boy! He's had enough of shovel talks - too bad Wheeljack is actually chill as hell and wasn't trying to give him one, but oh well. I culled this chapter a bit ruthlessly, rather than writing the whole scene long-form, since it was like an extra 2k words, and much as I love Wheeljack, I don't extra-2k-words-over-any-other-chapter love Wheeljack.
> 
> Still, the boys are warming up to each other, finally, and they managed to make it a whole chapter with no one pointing a weapon at anyone! We should all be very proud.
> 
> Next chapter is gonna be the raid itself - so Ratchet, Jazz, and Prowl only, on the ground. I debated showing a bit more of the planning in this chapter, but eventually realized that it would just make this chapter drag and spoil the suspense of next chapter, so that too got the chop - seriously, this chapter was like 7k before I cut things back... gah. But hey! I'm pumped to write action, and I've got some dope stuff planned, so I'm psyched for what's next! I may or may not split the raid into two chapters, since it may well hit 8k words - or longer, considering that the Feldspar raid was almost 6k and that had only two characters... IDK. I just found out I'm 100% sure off for another week, though, so at least I have time for it! :D


	5. Chapter 5

Meister moves through the shadows as if he absorbs all light. Visor offline, helm down, Prowl can hardly track him even with his doorwings - the assassin’s vents, engines, even his pedefalls are silent, a vacuum of noise that barely registers.

Prowl himself is… less invisible. The deep burgundy and dark navy of his reprogrammed nanites sink into the shadows, mixing with modified grey plating to break up his silhouette against the darkness of the alleyway, but compared to Meister, it’s as if he was standing in the open - there’s no comparison. 

Still, it’s not the first time he’s been on an infiltration mission, even if this time he’s wearing a darkened, desaturated version of Smokescreen’s color scheme rather than the all-grey ghost-template of a stealthed enforcer. He stays back as Meister approaches a side-door to Rhodolite’s den, keeping watch down the alleyway as the assassin examines the door.

::G-side cameras ready to go down, Medic?::

::Standing by for loop on G17 to G19. Standing by for loop on G19 to G26. Standing by for loop on G13 to G21. Hallway is clear, thirty klicks.:: Ratchet’s voice in his comms is soothing, confident; the sort of expert professionalism he hasn’t had with him on a raid since Iacon. Meister’s voice is similarly steady - even, well-paced, and in control. 

::Ready to move when you are, Raider.:: Not “Officer” - however accurate the moniker might be, they can’t risk it being overheard, not when it ties so easily back to him. ::You good to breach?::

::Ready to breach, Killer.:: It’s easy, ritual - call-and-response. ::Confirm for breach, Killer?::

::Confirming for breach, three kliks.::

They are as still as crystals in the darkness as Prowl’s chronometer - carefully synched - counts down three-two- by one, Meister is moving, completing the final movements to push the door open. They enter, slipping in Prowl only pedefalls behind Meister, to an empty, dimly-lit hall.

Prowl takes a moment to appraise it, doorwings fanning wide. ::Right.:: he comms back to both Ratchet and Meister - their preferred route is clear. 

::Confirming G19 to G26. Standing by on G24 to G31.:: Ratchet’s response is easy, and they move smoothly down the darkened hallway, blueprints firmly fixed in both processors. 

As they reach G29, Jazz’s frame shifts beside him, the tell-tale sounds of a whirring transformation sequence. Prowl doesn’t flinch as a dark-blue Polyhexian with deep gold trim matches stride with him in the hall - here, in a lit base full of enemies, with a constant flow of new mechs moving through, it’s easiest to be unremarkable, and Meister’s frame is anything but unremarkable.

Jazz’s frame, recolored, isn’t either - the curve of his bumper, the glittering dark blue, the sleek linework emphasising not just speed but a racer’s grace… It’s a work of art, a much more elegant recolor than Prowl’s own hastily-modded files. He’s utterly relaxed, even surrounded by potential threats - walking with the poise of a mech who knows he belongs. 

Prowl feels… less graceful, perhaps. He’s not a mech known for his easy carriage - even for an enforcer, he’s stiff-winged and straight-backed. But no one who looks at the easy way Meister moves around him would mistake him for one - no one would mistake Meister for an outsider.

As they move from G30 to G31, they stop again. ::G17 to G30 back online. No one’s coming your way, and I can loop G31 as long as you need me to.::

Prowl takes only a moment to review the blueprint. ::Loop G31 to G32; H4 to H13; H12 to H16.:: He examines the hallway linkages more carefully. ::What are conditions like in K-sector? We won’t be looping the cameras, there.::

::K-sector’s loud. Left more than right; both are noisy. Recommend L-side instead? Could manage a loop between L23 and L31, if we time it right.::

::Acknowledging recommend L-side. Raider?::

It’s an easy call to make. ::Acknowledging recommend L-side. Medic, confirm for L-side; is L26 clear at this time?::

::L26 confirm clear.::

::Then confirm recommend L-side.:: L26 is a side-room - little-used, at least in theory, and according to the surge maps Klaxon has provided. It’s a long walk through three separate sides, but it’ll give them a chance to regroup before entering more occupied portions of the base.

As they move again, it’s easy to tell that Ratchet worked with, perhaps was even trained by, Ultra Magnus. He and Meister work seamlessly, using the crisply-structured wording of Iaconi raiding patter better than most enforcers - and, with the easy facility the structured language is designed to enable, they accept his input into their rhythm gracefully. There’s no hesitance in Ratchet’s reply when he makes a call, no petty argument from Meister - he’s the tactician, he was _made to be_ a tactician on this sort of raid, and they just… accept it.

It’s enough to make his spark ache with the sort of homesickness he hasn’t felt since his earliest days in Praxus. If he had a dozen mechs like them on the force…

But he doesn’t. He has two assassins and an inventor who’s not on the line, and he’ll have them until the raid is over and Jasper is on a train to Iacon. He squashes the homesickness down as they round the corner into H-side, but it’s hard to ignore until Ratchet breaks into comms - 

::Trouble ahead, coming out H12. Three targets, two kliks!::

Prowl’s gun is coming up even as Meister moves ahead, knife sliding from subspace into his hand. Prowl takes the first one through the door with a shot thru the helm, and before the other two can take cover behind the door or retreat into the room, Meister is on them - pressing ruthlessly forwards, knife coming up to catch the second mech’s throat before twisting and plunging down into the third mech’s chest. By the time he’s caught up, all that’s left is to haul the ruined frames into the room and shut the door - there’s no disguising the bright splashes of energon on the walls, or the pool on the floor.

::Good work.:: Ratchet’s voice has a relief to it that isn’t matched by Meister’s satisfied purr:

:: _Very_ good work. Nice and clean, Raider.:: The assassin’s visor glints as he meets his partner’s optics. ::Keep it up.::

Prowl can feel his doorwings fan under the praise, and he can only hope Meister is unfamiliar enough with Praxians to miss it. It’s been _so long_ since someone actually apprecia -

He crushes that feeling down, too, and ups the bandwidth on the ATS. He needs to focus, now more than ever.

Continuing to the H-K intersection is easy enough - Meister calls the cameras as they move, letting him focus on the feedback from his doorwings and pulling analysis through the ATS. Leaving the security of his frame in the other mech’s hands is… unwisely easy, and he absently reloads his gun as they move - no point in risking combat two bullets short.

They’re one camera zone short of the H-L intersection when Ratchet’s voice breaks through his focus again. ::Two targets coming out L24 - right side, one klik!:: 

It’s hardly any warning at all. ATS takes over - his gun is up and firing before conscious thought even registers the action, two shots into two helms before Meister can even reach them. They crumple like foil - two flight-frames, helms carved away by the force of the high-point blast.

Even as the second frame slumps to the ground, wings twisting as they grey, Ratchet’s voice is in Prowl’s comms, cold and hard.

::Trine!:: It’s the first time Prowl hears anything except professionalism in the medic’s voice - but even as he listens, Ratchet composes himself. ::Move, get to cover - as soon as you shot those two, a Seeker in B-side went into convulsions. They’re already greying, but bond-break’s not mistakable - they’ll be looking for you!::

::Confirm for L26!:: His own voice is louder than it needs to be, tight with urgency. ::Still clear?::

::L26 confirm clear!:: Ratchet lets out a hiss of static. ::Move fast - 14 kliks until company intercepts!::

They don’t bother with stealth - confident that Ratchet has the cameras, Meister leans into the movement and _sprints_ down the hall. Prowl is slower, designed for endurance over speed even in his root mode - by the time he reaches the door, Meister has it open, and lets him push through on momentum before darting in behind and sliding the door shut.

::All L-side cameras off-loop, maintaining L26 -:: Ratchet’s voice is still tight. ::I’m hoping if they get a clear view of the hallways, they’ll move on. Keep the lights off.::

::Understood. Update us if anyone -:: There’s the sound of heavy pedes moving past the room, slowly working their way down the hall, and Prowl freezes - stifling vents, fans, engines, everything. Meister moves, silent as death, to the door, knife ready to strike - but the pedes move past.

He waits another long, long moment before continuing.

::- update us if anyone passes L31 or L17 in this direction.::

::Understood.::

Slowly, slowly he lets his vents open, his fans pick up to disperse the already rising heat in his frame. He cycles down the ATS again, back to a low bandwidth, at least until the temperature spike passes. 

Meister steps towards him, knife lowering but not disappearing, and puts a hand on his shoulder. ::You alright, mech?::

::Uninjured.:: He gives a curt nod, letting his doorwings fan out a little. ::I’ve been in -::

Something catches in the air, and he freezes.

::We aren’t alone in here.:: He keeps the words on a tight band, not wanting to risk alerting whoever’s there with them. To his credit, Meister doesn’t move, freezing still for only a moment before relaxing, just a touch - feigning ignorance.

::Where?:: His voice is similarly clipped - Ratchet stays mercifully silent, letting Prowl focus on the sudden feedback from his doorwings.

::I don’t know.:: He fans them a little wider - tilting them upward just enough to turn the movement into a flirty gesture, enough to hopefully throw off a Praxian observer. It’s enough to get a better read on the air currents, but… ::I detected ventilations. Neither of us.::

::Will you be able to detect them if I’m moving?::

::Yes.::

Meister steps back, moving around the couch at the center of the room. He’s nothing more than a faint disturbance in the air, even in an enclosed space, and Prowl strains to detect the movement - the _other frame_ \- that had been so obvious only moments before…

Nothing.

Ratchet pings for acknowledgement, and Prowl pings back acceptance. ::Go ahead, Medic.::

::I’ve got nothing in the room with you. Door logs indicate that the last time someone entered or exited the room was over a joor ago - but I don’t have access to footage that old, not without getting Klaxon on the line.::

::I’m not picking up anything on infrared, either. What’s the odds that it was a sensor ghost?::

He rarely experiences them - the ATS has enough processing capacity to prevent them processor-side, meaning that the only way for one to occur would be an error in the actual sensors. And the airflow… it was complete data, not just a blip. If Ratchet or Meister had anything, anything at all, he would rate it low, but with both of them turning up nothing, and his own sensors not reporting any further movement…

::Very high. My apologies - I detected something, but if neither of you can confirm…::

Ratchet’s tone is relieved. ::Don’t worry about it, Raider. Your wings are the most powerful set of sensors in there by far - I’d rather deal with a dozen false positives than have one of you get shot because you missed something.:: He pauses, checking the cameras. ::Take a break, you two. Twenty kliks - Rhodolite’s men found both sets of bodies, but they’ve taken them out of sequence - it looks like they’re assuming you killed the Seekers first, and then killed the other three mechs when they intercepted you on your way out. They’ve got teams heading outside the building looking for you, now.::

::Got it.:: Meister take Prowl’s shoulder, guiding him gently to the couch. ::This side, mech, it’ll give us some cover if anyone comes through the door. How are you for fuel?::

::82%.:: He’s not done anything too complex, yet, but the ATS chews through power even at low usage. He reaches into subspace, groping until he finds the gels he keeps for exactly this - high-concentration, low-dosage fuel. He pops three of them, fuel levels already rising as they begin to dissolve, and offers another to Meister, who pops it back with a grin.

::Those’re a great idea - I’ll have to see about getting some.:: Meister grins, curling into the couch. ::Not as useful for me, probably wouldn’t keep up with my sort of power draw, but hey, worth a shot…::

::Here.:: He beams the manufacturer’s information over to Meister. ::I get them through the Precinct, but you can order them commercially.::

Meister gives a soft chuckle at that - barely enough to breeze over his doorwings.

They wait like that as their chronometers count down. At fifteen kliks, Ratchet jumps back onto comms. ::Looks like things are settling. We got lucky - it sounds like there was some bad blood with the Seekers. Security’s still high, but most of the active search is outside - Rhodolite’s got a few more mechs with her, but not nearly as bad as I was expecting.::

::Do you have a visual on Jasper?:: Prowl almost hesitates to ask it, but… the more information Ratchet can give them, the better. 

::Still looking alright.:: Ratchet’s voice has regained its earlier calm. ::A few more dents, but with that hole in his throat, at least he’s not mouthing off - as long as Rhodolite doesn’t pick up that you’re after him, he should walk out with you.::

Prowl’s wings almost droop with relief, but he ups the ATS and lets calm wash back over him as the tactical system eats away bandwidth. ::Alright. Are we still good to move out in three kliks?::

::Confirming three kliks. I’m going to cover you camera-to-camera until you reach N-side - after that, there’s too many people, a loop would get noticed. As soon as you see foot traffic, move quickly and get into it - I’ll transition the cameras so it’s not a noticeable jump. Confirm?::

::Understood.::

::Understood.::

They move back into the hallway just as the timer runs out, fanning out to stay abreast of each other. Meister’s hands are constantly moving, dagger re-hidden in subspace, as if he’s describing something over comms - Prowl obligingly flickers his optics occasionally as if listening, while letting his wings fan back out into a casual, sensor-heavy pose.

He detects - not as they leave, but moments later - a faint, stirring breeze behind them, but it’s gone in moments, and the ATS carefully categorizes it and sets it aside with a note to have Ratchet - any medic, but the ATS says Ratchet - take a look at his sensors after the mission. The medic doesn’t mention anything behind them as they move on.

It’s another several kliks before he picks up the first vibrations of pedes in the halls ahead. ::Moving up on traffic, Medic. Dropping my wings to half-sensitivity in five kliks. Any information on the crowd?::

::All targets,:: is the first reply. ::Around two dozen mechs, moving through the main doors and deeper into the base. Give your gun to Killer - they’re scanning subspaces, he can stash yours until the two of you are through.::

Beside him, he can already see that Meister’s hands have dropped to his sides, fingers flickering as he rearranges weapons. The hidden secondary subspace he’s using to store them is… not technically illegal. Just a very, very difficult mod to get ahold of. 

Prowl hands him the pistol, and Meister vanishes it with a grin.

They merge into the flow of mechs at a brisk walk. Neither of them stands out significantly - around half the crowd is dark-colored Praxians, and Meister’s glittering blue-and-gold palette is a good enough match to a gangland glossy that it blends right in despite his uncommon frametype. He takes a flirtier air, swinging his hips a little as he walks fluidly between larger mechs, ducking under doorwings with a smile, until they reach the doors to the inner factory.

A pair of deep-red Praxians, paint jobs identical except for their detailing - both silver-trimmed, but one with white accents and the other with black - are guarding the door, guns slung at their sides in a blatant show of force. Meister strides right up to them, confident, unintimidated - 

“I got a comm someone named Hornfels wanted a word, mechs. Was wondering if you could have me on my way?”

The guards give him a good look - one, disinterested, glances away after only a moment, but the black-trimmed mech gives him a smile. “Pretty little thing like you, I can only imagine. You got a name, Polyhex?”

Meister smiles right back, optics bright, as the first guard rummages through his subspace. “Cenote. My mech there’s Karst - we’re a package deal.” He gestures at Prowl, who does his best to look… well, like part of a package with a high-ticket buymech. Meister’s smile turns into a grin. “Sturdy, isn’t he?”

The guard looks significantly less interested in a fellow Praxian - he pauses only a moment to check something before giving the pair of them a nod. “No idea where your Hornfels is, but he should be up on the second level. You’re good to go - keep an optic out. There was some rough business earlier, and we haven’t caught the mechs behind it yet.” His partner finishes rifling Prowl’s subspace - almost entirely empty, except for the energon gels - and nods his agreement before letting them by.

Prowl only relaxes once they’re well past the guards, and it’s obvious their ploy has worked - having bypassed security at the main entrance, the internal security is much less tight, even with the alarm raised. ::Is Hornfels a real mech?:: He hadn’t asked when they were planning - beyond offering up his own codename, he hadn’t had much involvement in this section of the plan at all. This kind of delicate subterfuge is entirely Meister’s area of expertise.

::Nah. I’d rather they find nothing at all than give them someone to comm and have them find out for certain we’re liars…:: Meister gestures him around a corner with a wink and a flick of his hands, before pressing him up against the wall. ::Here, take this -:: “Relax, babe. You’re always so _uptight_ around new mechs - I promise you, Hornfels is gonna love you.”

One hand traces his headlights with a feather-light, flirty touch, as the other - hidden by both their frames - slides his gun back into his hands. Prowl subspaces it before dropping one hand to impersonally squeeze Meister’s aft. 

“We should get going. We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.” He lets his hand fall away, doing his best to look appreciative.

::Of course not.:: “Of course not,” Meister says with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh _no -_ it's that old pairing favorite where Jazz and Prowl have to pretend to be prostitutes, and Prowl is _tragically unsexy._ TBH, this is just as much practice for me as it is serious - I've not written much flirting in the last six years or so since I'm an avid asexual and commissioners generally don't want to pay for 500 words of not-porn.
> 
> That said, eh, it's a fun trope! I can think of at least 12 or 13 livejournal bangers built off of that premise alone. But fortunately, this Prowl just sliiiiides that ATS to full power and flattens those lustful thoughts right out. Fortunately, Jazz is sexy enough for 10 mechs - he could probably get the whole constructicon crew into somewhere based on nothing but sex appeal and carnal lust.
> 
> I think the raid will probably end up at about 10k words total - so split into three sections, for my convenience. They're most of the way there already, but I'm allowing plenty of time for a final battle and exfil with an injured mech, so we'll see! And then an epilogue - so we should be wrapping up this story by, well... The two-week mark.
> 
> I fucking know, right? It blew my mind when I checked and realized _I've only been posting this for ten days._ Shit. Fuck. It's gonna be longer than GOA at this point. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
> 
> nah it's cool. imma be fine.
> 
> Just to clarify how the ATS works, since I didn't explain it super-clearly in the text:
> 
> The ATS has three modes: off, standby, and on.
> 
> When it's off, it's off - there's no risk of crashing, because Prowl's processor doesn't register it as being there. An ordinary mech would leave it in this state most of the time. However! Prowl had his installed before he reached adulthood - so as he grew, he used the ATS to manage his emotions. With it offline, he's more emotionally flighty, and he panics/gets upset easily. This is the state it was in at the start of "The Capture" when he was freaking out on Jazz - he had turned it off so it wouldn't conflict with his deceptive bad-copping.
> 
> In standby, it's active, but there's no data flow. It uses less power this way, and has a minimum regulatory impact on his emotions - enough to keep him stable, but not suppress them significantly. He's still less expressive than most Praxians, but not unemotive. This is the stage where he can crash - because there's no dataflow, he has to open bandwidth to start using the ATS, and his processor will occasionally glitch and send data too soon, crashing him.
> 
> On, the ATS is active and running simulations/managing datafeeds/processing inputs. In this stage, there's no risk of a crash - there's always some bandwidth allowance to prevent it. However! With an active ATS, Prowl chews through energon, and there's at least some amount of emotional suppression - by increasing the bandwidth open to the ATS, he can increase that effect, so it can range from last chapter (snarky but very calm; able to emote, but not prone to panicking even in the face of threats) to the last section of this chapter (able to grab Meister's aft without it registering as more than an action.) It's an emotional crutch, and not a particularly healthy one - but he's spent his whole life using it to deal with other people, and in stressful situations, he falls back on it.
> 
> Remember that this is tentatively from Prowl's limited perspective - he's not a 100% reliable narrator on his own function. Rumors of his douchiness while on a raid may be filtered through asshole coworkers, in other words.


	6. Chapter 6

Moving through the base proper is easier. No one looks twice at them - here, past two layers of guards, the gang members are relaxed, confident. Meister parries compliments and come-ons with an easy grin, the flirtatious tilt of a hip, the occasional close-range burst of a burner comm-code met with touches and catcalling from the mechs around them. Prowl, by contrast, remains stoic - all that’s expected of him, as the assassin had informed him. He’s not a buymech, could never pass as one - but as muscle, a partner, a prop? He’s bulky enough to play the part.

Still, it’s a relief as they move away from the crowd, towards one of the huge blast doors that shield access to the recycling plant proper.

Meister gives a last flirty wave to their audience as they round the corner, before pulling Prowl into a dark cubbyhole out of sight of the cameras.

::Good job, mech. Dial it back - they’re gone.::

::Hallways are clear from here to the doors, Raider.:: Ratchet’s crisp voice helps sooth back the stress of being surrounded by other, hostile frames. ::I’ve got the cameras. Standing by on B6 to B11 - ready to move when you are.::

::I’m ready.:: Beside him, Meister’s plating shifts back to matte black, frame whirring back into the more familiar form of the assassin. At Ratchet’s confirmation, they slink out into the hallway, weapons drawn, hugging the shadows. 

The recycling plant itself is unguarded.

Even this deep in Rhodolite’s base, it’s a show of confidence - of power. The blast door looms like a gaping tungsten behemoth, half a meter thick and scorched black with the heat of the crucibles - behind it, the plant is lit with the crimson glow of molten metal. From the doorway, it’s impossible to see across the plant - the haze of metal particulate and carbon dust is too dense to see beyond a hundred feet.

Through the fog, the smelter’s glow is haloed, the one white light in the dimness.

Moving through the door, the heat of the plant grows oppressive - Prowl can feel his own fans pick up, and beside him, he can only assume that Meister’s do the same. They drop down easily onto the lower level, abandoning the obvious catwalks to work their way between the crucibles themselves - sticking to the dark and shadows between the towering vats.

As they work deeper into the bowels of the recycling plant itself, Prowl slowly lets himself relax. They’re out of sight of other mechs, out of sight of the cameras - and Meister’s frame beside him is like a reassuring shadow, the ghost of a ghost in the dim red light of the crucibles.

The klaxons, therefore, catch him completely off-guard.

They start low - a rising wail that rises ever-higher, cutting off with a whoop before rising again. The first is almost enough to deafen him, but he ruthlessly triggers the cutoff on his wings, and plunges into disorienting deafness long enough to lower the sensitivity on the delicate arrays and bring them back online. Beside him, Meister, too, is staggered - the Polyhexian’s sensors are nowhere near as sensitive as his own, but they’re still designed to allow him to navigate the pitch-dark of his home city’s tunnels, and Prowl can see him struggle to compensate as he dampens them back to a reasonable level. 

It’s only once the initial shock is over that Prowl registers Ratchet’s voice in his comms - not drowned out, but overwhelmed by the rush of other input.

::Killer! Raider - damn it, one of you, respond!::

::Raider confirming, we’re both fine, Medic!:: He beams a hasty reply, still struggling to reorient himself. ::Sitrep?::

::Damn. Damn! Can you run? No - belay that - stay where you are, get behind cover, it’s already too late.:: Ratchet’s voice is tight with stress as the noise of the klaxons fades into a muffled wail. ::Slag and the Pit! The blast doors - they’re designed to contain the fires if one of the crucibles goes - they’ve just sealed them. Or… somebody has, at least - Rhodolite’s mechs seem just as confused.::

Beside him, Meister curses aloud. ::How many mechs, Ratchet?:: 

::In with you? Confirming fourteen targets, Rhodolite and thirteen others. Confirming Jasper, too - no other non-targets. That I can see - I’ve got limited coverage, with that haze:: The medic pauses, scanning through data. ::No one else is getting in - the doors lock for a joor automatically, to keep fire from spreading. After that they’re going to need the fire department to open them… I have no idea how we’re getting you _out._ I can’t even tell what triggered the doors!::

::Jasper first -:: Prowl cuts in. ::We need to secure him. I doubt Rhodolite will anticipate this being an attempt at retrieving him, but -::

::Sooner we get to him the better.:: Meister gives a curt nod. ::Any thoughts on how this should play?::

Prowl calls up the blueprints, the diagram of the recycling plant’s machinery, and searches. It doesn’t take much more than a klik for the ATS to begin offering plans, ideas, strategies…

::Your magnets are strong enough to lift you, correct?:: Another nod from Meister. ::And your infrared?::

::Useless. It’s too hot - plating’s gonna warm ‘til it’s the same temp as the rest of the room.:: Prowl nods - it’s what he expected, but without any experience with the mods himself, it’s better to confirm. 

::I will be able to track them, if I get close. With the blast doors closed, the sirens are quiet enough that the ATS can filter them out.:: He checks his logs. ::In… half a joor, heat will begin damaging the sensors in my wings - it isn’t a serious threat, but it will make it impossible for me to do so.::

::So, you can track them, get up close - and what? If I get into the rafters, I’m not gonna be able to see slag - might be able to catch enough movement that I can get shots off, but it’s not gonna be clean.::

It’s… a ridiculous idea. The sort of thing that he’s only done twice in his function, the sort of thing that gets officers run up in front of their commanders for idiocy if not a judge for reckless endangerment of the public welfare, but…

::Slave your targeting systems to mine.:: Meister is exactly as silent as he expected at the suggestion. ::I can track them - the ATS can perform the real-time calculations to adjust targeting data from my position to yours, as long as you’re stationary. Get up into the rafters, and I can give you your shots, Killer.::

::That’s dumb. That’s unbelievably dumb, a _slagging terrible idea -_ :: Ratchet’s voice cuts across the comms in shock, but Meister’s voice, cool and steady, cuts him off.

::Do it.:: He thrusts an arm forwards, port cover sliding aside. ::Give me the shots, and I’ll take them. You’ll be on the ground doing the same?::

Prowl looks at the ports on offer, hardly able to believe that _Meister is agreeing_ \- his fingers shake as he unspools his own cable, taking a moment before sinking it in. ::I could do the calculations for a dozen mechs. It won’t be a problem.::

He sinks the cable home, and Meister’s cool mind bursts around his own. 

This time, there’s no reciprocating feeling of Meister in his own mind - it’s a one-way connection, giving access and allowing none. He can feel Meister regarding him, but it’s as a presence in the other mech’s mind - an invader, not part of a mutual exchange of feedback. Meister’s firewalls stand between them, the same smooth, black wall, a flat surface offering no purchase against which to begin a hack - but then, like a wave breaking on the Rust Sea, they part for him.

Meister’s consciousness dances before him, rippling through the alien organization of the other mech’s processor. It guides him deep - far deeper than an ordinary scan, deeper even than an interface, to the processes that govern function, action, form. A vent away from autonomics, it stops - and Prowl regards the foreign targeting computer as an outsider.

It’s not completely alien - no targeting system is; the same coding, modified to and by the user, forms the base for all weapons mods. But Meister’s… the parameters are different to his, substantially, the careful processor-intensive criteria to call a shot replaced with almost instinctive reaction times, snap-judgements based on incomplete data, motive tracking designed to judge and aim multiple shots in sequence as fast as the assassin’s superior reflexes can reach them.

It’s a delicate, lethal system, reigned in only by Meister’s physical limitations - and as Prowl regards it, he realizes that, within these criteria, _Meister could not be faster._

Even as he registers that, Meister is transferring code. The permissions needed to slave a system - to give input controls wholly over to another mech, to allow that mech to treat you or be treated as a peripheral - are extensive and deep-coded, and the ease with which Meister offers them…

It’s not a small thing he’s asking. He hadn’t really expected the other mech to accept - hadn’t expected anything but a harsh reaction and a different plan, despite the ATS showing this as the safest option. It’s a violation of self, the sort that any reasonable mech might shy away from - a show of trust that he hasn’t yet proven himself to deserve.

Meister completes permissioning, and Prowl accepts, and a tac-net blooms to life between them.

Immediately, Prowl is aware of the other mech’s hands - where they are, what they’re holding, the exact ballistics and the weight and shape of the gun: a thousand datapoints about recoil, atmospheric interference, heat turbulence. He shunts that all into secondary processing - he doesn’t need any of it. Meister can calculate the trajectories - all he needs to do is provide the targeting data.

He hardly registers himself slipping from the other mech’s processor until he’s got his own cables back in hand, coiling them away beneath his own plating. Meister watches with a bright visor as he slides his own port cover shut.

::That was the _stupidest thing I’ve ever seen you do,_ Meister.:: Ratchet’s comm is almost a hiss, dark and furious. ::We’re going to have a nice, _long_ conversation about this later. Prowl, you have his targeting systems? You’re going to need to move up - most of Rhodolite’s mechs are between her and the door, but they’re not evenly dispersed. Favoring the east wall.::

::Understood.::

Meister breaks away as Prowl works his way between the crucibles, until his doorwings can register vibrations down the catwalk overhelm. He stills behind an empty crucible, where the heat is more bearable, and slides his own pistol from subspace. 

From here, Rhodolite is easy enough to detect - a huge, tank-framed femme, easily twice the size and five times the mass of any of the other mechs, made distinctive by the deep, bass vibrations of her heavy-duty engines. She’s the primary threat - not just well-armored, but heavily-armed. Jasper is near her, kneeling, fans running heavily as his engine idles. He pings the data up to Meister.

::Got it.:: Meister’s reply is easy, solid. ::Gonna put a targeting block on Jasper. How many others can you feed me? I’ve got ten rounds - I want to put at least three into Rhodolite, straight off. We need her cannons out of play - if she gets a lock, that’s it.::

Prowl lets his wings extend, fanning to gather data. The heat is bearable but still scorching - it’s a constant, chafing distraction that he lets the ATS wick away. Frames light up in his targeting awareness, points of vibration and speech and noise, and he filters until he has a half-dozen scattered above him, marking them and tracking them as they move and shift.

He feeds the data back to Meister, lets the assassin select his targets, first. The three frames closest to Rhodolite illuminate as Meister locks them in his targeting, and Prowl can feel it as the assassin’s code begins generating predictive tracking, sequencing and resequencing shots according to the raw data streaming from Prowl’s ATS to his systems. Rearranging the data so that it’s usable from another angle is intensive enough to consume substantial bandwidth, and Prowl takes the chance to down a few more gels as he adjusts his own position to bring the other three mechs within his own line of fire.

::Ready fire on my call, Killer.::

::Confirm fire on your call, Raider.:: Meister’s voice tightens with anticipation. ::If you can’t feed me further targets, drop targeting and I’ll close into melee. Don’t shoot me.::

::You read distinct, Killer.:: Silent as he runs, there’s no chance his targeting systems will lock on Meister, not in a gunfight. ::Confirm melee upon target loss, my discretion. Will give you a one-klik firing window before joining fire. Confirm fire, five kliks.::

::Confirm five kliks.::

The moments spiral away in his processor - above him, Rhodolite is calling something out to another mech, no doubt comms are buzzing with chatter, but it washes over him as irrelevant white noise, logged for later analysis but currently trivial. All his focus is on the movements of the mechs above, the vibrations of engines, the faint shifts of plating that let him target even through haze - the thick stream of data running to his partner, leaving him half-tactician and half-peripheral as the assassin waits to fire.

**-BANG- -BANG- -BANG-**

In the open cavern of the recycling plant, Meister’s shots echo - as if they’re coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. His targeting systems are disoriented for only a moment, but he keeps the data streaming, letting Meister’s predictive analysis cover for the lapse as he begins firing his own weapon. He registers - barely, on the very edges of his focus, so deeply-buried that it hardly meets the standards of conscious thought - that Rhodolite has crumpled, that her engines are choking - ignores it, picks his own target, fires twice. Moves to the next one on automatic, ATS compensating for the mech’s sudden attempt at flight, tracking every motion to line up on the flight-frame’s helm - above him, Meister, too, has kept shooting, firing as quickly as he can chamber a round, aim shifting with effortless, flawless grace.

The gunfire makes it impossible for him to sort new targets, the echo enough to drown out the engines of the other mechs, and as Meister takes his final shot, Prowl drops targeting. The noise is too much, disorienting him further as the surviving gangsters return fire through the haze, and he dives behind the crucible as shots bounce off the dense metal.

His first sign that Meister has entered the fray is in the form of a choked scream.

This time, the gunfire is pointed away from him - aimed into the haze of swirling red that hides the assassin and his knives as he stalks his targets. Through the tac-net, Prowl can see the shadows of mechs as Meister perceives them, but the assassin’s own processor lacks the ability to translate the data for Prowl’s use - and even he would struggle to do so if he was moving the way the assassin is.

Instead, he takes advantage of the other mech’s distraction to clamber onto the catwalk, keeping low. He knows where Rhodolite is, at least - and three bullets, however well-aimed, is not enough to kill a tankformer.

It is enough to cripple her, however.

Meister’s bullets have shattered her face, blinding her - the distinct list in her frame as she struggles to rise betrays processor damage. She’s moving, but it’s obvious she’s not a threat - the same noise and confusion that’s blinding him will have her own targeting systems offline, if the damage wasn’t enough. In melee… still a threat, but her movements are sluggish, gyros clearly damaged.

He could disable her - knock her into stasis, leave her bound and helpless, slip a tip to his fellow enforcers to follow the fire department in. Surrounded by bodies, she’d be arrested, at least - a raid conducted on the building looking for evidence of crimes -

And then she’d pay her way out, and go back to hurting mechs. The thought itches in his mind, coiling through his processor in Meister’s voice - warning, wary. Hunt Jasper - even in Iacon. Nowhere and nothing is _truly_ outside the reach of a mech with the credits to spend. Hunt _him_ \- and he’s not going to flee the city, not for her. Hunt Meister - she’s powerful enough that the enforcers will listen, if she puts them to it, will turn their helms to the hunt for her, and no mech can evade that forever...

He draws his service knife, waits until gunfire drowns out the sound of his own movements, and slashes downward into her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayy! Speaking of trusting mechs to do dangerous things with your frame - hoo boy is Ratchet gonna have some slag to say about syncing systems in the middle of a dangerous combat scenario. And about the risk-reward ratio of giving another mech control of one of your vital functions. About lots of things, really, provided he can get them out of the giant concrete-and-tungsten box they're currently trapped in without them both getting shot to death by the cops.
> 
> Now, as of my last tally... We had unanimous votes that the sensor ghost was Mirage, with one vote for a potential casseticon and one vote for Ravage, specifically. Now, that's great, y'all, but unfortunately sensor ghosts are a perfectly normal phenomenon to any mech with high-end sensor arrays, and you can't just extrapolate a whole character from a random scene like that - ;D nah, but fr u probs rite, tho.
> 
> I think this chap pretty much speaks for itself, tbh. I'm pretty pleased with it, even if it is a bit short - it's really just part II of the last chapter, so about 6k words, right where I expected this section to wind up.
> 
> Next time, our little yellow guy, who for sure isn't Bumblebee, no siree. :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Who has two thumbs, no job, and banged a 4500 word chapter out in ten hours cause she loves y'all? This gal!

By the time the gunfire stops, and Meister strides out of the shadows, Prowl’s gotten the worst of the energon off his hands, and hidden the knife away. Meister walks over, looks at Rhodolite, and then meets Prowl’s optics with the same inscrutable look as before.

::I woulda taken care of it, mech…::

::I wasn’t going to risk her lashing out and injuring Jasper.:: Prowl hesitates. ::And… I’m the one who asked you for help. It was only right that I get my hands just as dirty.::

::Fair enough.:: Meister gives a soft hum, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. Prowl lets himself lean into it for just a moment before pulling away. 

::We need to take care of Jasper.::

The minibot is on his side, sprawled across the floor where he had tried to struggle away from the sounds of fighting. He’s blindfolded, and shaking - his field is electric around him, alive with terror. Meister looks at him with a bright visor. ::You haven’t let him go yet?::

::I couldn’t, not with you still fighting.:: He pauses, gesturing at his still energon-covered frame. Meister, by comparison, has kept the worst of his enemy’s fuel off of himself - a better knife-fighter by far. ::I thought you might be… marginally more comforting. He won’t recognize me, and I’m…::

::Dripping. Slag.:: Meister looks him up and down. ::I’m not gonna transform yet - if we hit anyone on the way out, I don’t wanna risk them seeing me even if I’m wearin’ the wrong colors. Gonna play this as Meister, but I’ll try an’ keep him calm.::

“Hey, mech.” Meister’s tone is soothing, calm - the same tone he used with Prowl after his crashes. “You’re safe, alright? Fighting’s over - no one’s gonna hurt you. Me an’ my mech here are gonna help you out, okay?”

He moves slowly towards the smaller frame, until he’s close enough to touch.

“I’m right next ta you, alright? Gonna help you get back upright so we can see about getting you untied. You gonna be okay if I touch you?” His fingers are only inches from Jasper’s shoulders, but he waits until the smaller mech nods to grasp them, carefully pulling the minibot back to his knees. He lets out a sympathetic hiss at the sight of Jasper’s savaged throat, the damage all over his frame. “Took out your vocalizer for talkin’, huh? Nasty piece of work, that femme. S’ alright - she ain’t gonna get her hands on you again, and I got a medic who’s gonna get you patched up as soon as you’re outta here.”

Jasper lets out a burst of static, but doesn’t fight as Meister moves him. Once he’s upright, steady, Meister’s hand rises to his face. “Gonna take off your blindfold, and give you some space, alright, mech? Try not ta panic.”

He slices through the dense mesh, pulling the fabric away as the minibot’s optics flicker into a reboot before standing and stepping back. By the time they’re fully online and focused, Jasper’s optics are almost white with fear - he stares up at them, and Meister gives an awkward cough.

::Put th’ gun away, mech. Gotta tell your kid what’s goin’ on - way he looks right now, you untie him an’ he’s gonna make a run for it.::

Prowl gives a curt nod, tucking the pistol behind his back, but he doesn’t subspace it entirely.

“Look, mech - we ain’t here to hurt you. You gotta work with us, though, alright? If I let you go, you gonna run off an’ get yourself shot?” Meister’s voice is gentle, and he holds out his - empty - hands, low and obvious. Jasper flinches back at the motion, but when Meister doesn’t reach out to grab him, he gives a blat of static and then a hesitant nod.

Keeping his movements the same - slow and fluid - Meister steps forwards and lays a hand on Jasper’s shoulder, giving Jasper something to track as the assassin slips behind him. There’s no way for the minibot to see the knife cutting through his ropes, but it’s obvious that he’s aware of it’s presence from the way his whole frame tightens. 

Hesitantly, Prowl crouches before him, keeping his whole frame in view.

“My name is Raider, Jasper. A… friend of yours asked us to get you out of the city. Do you speak Hand?”

A pause, then Jasper nods again. As soon as his hands are free, they’re around in front of him - it’s _Meister’s_ turn to jerk back in surprise at the sudden movement - and signing.

||Is that _Meister_?|| Glyphs of _disbelief/doubt/fear_ frame the spelled-out name. ||The _assassin_?||

“Yeah, that’s me.” Meister lets amusement trickle into his voice to match the grin Jasper can’t see. “Promise I ain’t here to do you any harm, little guy. Like Raider said, we’re here to get you out of here - done all the killing we need to, so long as no one tries to stop us on the way out.”

He tugs the last of the rope free of Jasper’s ankles, and moves back to where the minibot can see him before offering a hand. “Think you can stand up?”

Jasper hesitates for only a moment before taking the hand and scrambling, heavily, to his pedes. Standing, the extent of his damage is obvious, and something inside Prowl cringes at the knowledge that it was for _him_ , that Jasper was hurt this badly helping _him_...

::Bad.:: Ratchet almost hisses the word down the comms. ::Really, really bad… but not as bad as it could be. He’s gonna be stable, at least, as long as he’s not hiding a leak… Ask him his energon pressure.::

Prowl responds with a confirmation ping. “What is your current energon pressure?” He considers for a moment, then adds “...And your energon level generally,” at the thought of how long the minibot has been bound, and how likely Rhodolite is to have fueled him.

It takes Jasper a moment to locate the levels - unsurprising, since energon pressure is usually hidden in a subfile when not being checked by a medic; there’s no ordinary reason for a mech to need it. ||5.67Atm; 26 percent.|| He hesitates again. ||5.45 is considered optimal for my frametype, I think. Since I’m a minibot.||

::He’s right - that’s well within stress deviations. And definitely not a leak.:: Ratchet replies as he relays the numbers back. ::Give him a cube. Get him to check his coolant levels, too - if he’s been running fans all day, he’ll need a top-off.::

Jasper accepts the cube eagerly, knocking it back with the expertise of a streetmech used to going hungry. As he drinks, his optics - finally - cool from panic-white to their normal cerulean, frame slowly relaxing. 

Once he pauses to take a breath, Meister leans in. 

“Coolant level? Anything else you’re getting reports about?” He gestures at the minibot’s frame. “Other than the obvious.” 

||70%.|| Jasper glances from Meister to Prowl and back again, then ducks his helm. ||Nothing I’m getting reports about, but… Can you do something about my windshield?||

“Of course. Give me a second, I’ll see what I can do.” Meister moves carefully closer, keeping his hands in plain sight as he reaches towards the gaping hole in the glass. “I’m gonna pull it loose, alright, mech? It shouldn’t hurt - gonna get the edge of the gasket, and pull. It’ll be a bit of an odd feeling, though.”

“Here.” Prowl reaches into his inventory, pulling out a pain chit. “Let me -”

Jasper yanks his arm away as he brushes his fingers over the minibot’s wrist ports, optics and plating flaring. He spits static, hand going up protectively in front of him, as he scrambles back - Meister’s hands jerk up and away, fingers spreading to display that they’re empty, as Prowl pulls his own hands back.

“Slag, warn a mech!” Meister’s tone is warning, but his gaze is on Prowl, not Jasper. “Can’t just go for the ports, Raider. ‘S alright, Jasper - Raider ain’t gonna do anything you’re not alright with.”

Jasper hesitates, obviously distrustful, before reaching into his own subspace. He gropes around for a moment before drawing out a similar pain chit, slotting it into his wrist with his free hand cupped protectively around the ports, and cover sliding shut before he straightens.

||Sorry. I don’t want your code near my ports.|| It’s blunt - one of the downsides of hand is that it lacks the euphemism of spoken Neocybex. ||Thank you for offering.||

“You gonna be okay with me taking care of your glass, now, mech?” Meister stays well back. “Like I said, just gonna cut the gasket and pull, get anything hanging on outta you, and then I can check if there’s any lodged up in your hood.”

Jasper nods, stepping forwards just slightly. ||Alright.||

It doesn’t take long - Meister’s claws clip through the gasket in a single motion, one trailing the whole length of the minibot’s windscreen until the whole long strip of rubber is gone, and a showering of glass shards with it. He carefully lets his fingers slide up beneath the other mech’s hood, feeling for glass - but after a moment, he pulls back.

“Looks good - lots of splinters, but nothing that’s big enough ta slice a line.” 

||You said something about a medic?|| Jasper looks hopeful. ||I don’t have a lot of cred -||

“Your friend is taking care of things, mech. He wants us ta get you outta Praxus - mechs know who you are now, there’s folks who will be lookin’ for you even if you change your colors. I don’t wanna talk about it here -” Meister gestures up at the ceiling with a vague flick of his hand, “But it’s all bein’ taken care of. As soon as we figure out how ta get out of here.”

||Can’t we just go?|| Jasper hesitates, glancing over at Rhodolite’s greyed frame. ||If she’s dead?||

“You can hear the sirens, right?” They’re still a faint, constant whoop in the background. “Somebody triggered the blast doors - we’re shut in until the fire department lets us out, an’ there’s another half a joor before that happens.”

“It’s alright.” Prowl does his best to seem disarming as Jasper’s optics flicker back to him. “We’ll get you out of here.”

Jasper makes a waffling gesture with one hand, the distinct sign for contemplation, then fluidly slips back into hand. ||Do you think they’ve gone around back to the barges, yet?||

Meister perks up at that, visor brightening. “Th’ barges?”

||Yeah, the barges. The ones they used to use for scrap, back when this was a real recycling plant?|| He gestures at the back wall. ||Some of the guards shoot stims back there, when they’re not on shift. I mean, they’re all rusted over, but it’s outside, at least?||

::He’s right - you’re right on the waterline.:: Ratchet’s voice is enough to startle Prowl, although Meister seems nonplussed at the medic’s sudden return. ::Problem is, the blast doors cover all the entrances. It’s designed to keep atmosphere out as much as in - keep an overflowing crucible from cascading into an uncontrollable oxidation.::

::Any chance Klax can give us a hand?:: Meister hardly gets the question out before Ratchet replies.

::No luck. He’s not responding to comms. I left a message, but you know how it is…::

::Alright. Keep an audial out.:: It takes only a moment for Meister’s attention to return to Jasper. “Sorry - we got a mech keeping an optic on things for us. Was just checkin’ in.”

||No worries.|| Jasper rocks slightly on his pedes. ||Any luck?||

“Not yet, but he’s working. Hey, show me how the guards get outside - might be they’ve broken something that’ll give us an out.”

||Alright.||

Prowl hesitates as the minibot starts working his way around Rhodolite’s frame, but Meister, despite being a full-frame, is only a few feet taller than the other mech, and Jasper is still unsteady on his feet. He circles around the greyed frame in the other direction, coming up beside the minibot as they reach the stairs down off the catwalk before stopping.

“Could I offer you an arm, Jasper?” This time, wary of the minibot’s skittishness, he makes sure the smaller mech can see him fully. Jasper glances him up and down before nodding.

||Thank you. Sorry about before - I really am grateful, both of you.|| He pauses for a moment, pulling his hand close to his frame to hide the sign before continuing. ||Prowl really sent you?||

Prowl nods. “Yes, a friend of yours. An associate of ours owed him a favor, and he called it in.”

Jasper looks up at him for a moment before nodding. ||I see. Thank you very much - Rhodolite|| - it takes him a moment to decipher the spelling, so he finishes the word with a backwards gesture at the platform - ||said she was going to have me smelted, if no one came.||

“Wouldn’t be right, ta let somethin’ like that happen ta such a charmin’ young mech.” Meister grins. “This is it, huh?”

‘It’ is a back corner, the wall covered in a thin layer of carbon char. There’s a small pile of machinery against it, and a few pieces of sheet metal, covering a narrow blast door - a sealed narrow blast door.

“Slag.” Meister gives a frustrated grunt, grabbing one end of the sheet metal and yanking it down with a clatter. “It was a good try, mech. No beatin’ yourself -”

And freezes, staring down at the thick strip of evening light spilling from beneath the blast door.

It’s an almost unbelievable piece of luck - a heavy chunk of shattered crucible, wedged underneath the closing door. A three-foot gap - wide enough for Jasper, easily, and Meister - maybe even wide enough for him, if he turns off his doorwings and braces for some bruising. All three of them stare at it for a moment in shock as the ATS spits out probability calculations.

::Medic? We’re good. See you on the other side, mech.:: Meister’s voice is disbelieving, and Ratchet’s reply hardly registers compared to their incredible, ridiculous _luck._

||Are you two going to fit through that?|| Jasper recovers from the surprise first, and his words shake the other two out of their stupor. Meister grins at him.

“We’ll make it work, mech. Let me go first - don’t want you poppin’ out the other side into an ambush, shape you’re in.” Before Jasper can respond, Meister is on his knees, then his back, sliding under the door with two quick shoves of his feet. Prowl can hear him roll to his pedes on the other side, scanning the area before calling back quietly, “Looks good, mechs. Jasper, you come next, don’t want you gettin’ stuck behind Raider.”

The minibot scrambles under the door easily, leaving Prowl alone in the muggy plant. 

He’s the largest of the three of them by a good measure - his doorwings form the bulk of his additional width, but he’s not a particularly small mech by any means. He lets the ATS run sims as he evaluates the opening, looking for options - and the one he finds, in the end, is absurd.

::I won’t fit.:: He comms it to Meister, voice terse. ::My bumper is too wide forward. I’m going to need you to listen very carefully, and then assist.::

::Sure, my mech. Your doorwings ain’t an issue?::

He pauses, double-checking the numbers. ::I can deactivate them with Ratchet’s failsafe, and unhinge them. It will be uncomfortable, and I will need your assistance resetting them before we move again, but it is manageable. The bumper is the issue.::

He beams a packet of data - the ATS’ solution, to the other mech. The blat of comms-borne laughter that follows a moment after, when Meister has had a chance to look at it, is unappreciated but expected.

::I know. Can you provide the leverage?::

::Sure can, my mech.:: Meister’s voice is bright with humor. 

Grabbing the edge of the doorframe, Prowl swings his legs under it - unhinging his wings as he sits beneath the metal door. He lays back, pressed flat to the ground, and pulls himself under the door until his bumper is resting against it, only a decimeter too wide to fit. Then he triggers his transformation sequence, slowly, moving step-by-step until his helm is retracted into his frame.

::Now.::

Meister grabs his knees, and with a show of brute strength, lifts - until the cantilever lets him hoist Prowl off the ground and twist him under the door. Dragging him free, he drops him after a moment, and Prowl takes a moment to dust himself off before gesturing to his limp wings.

::My thanks.::

Meister is still grinning as he reseats the wings - and even Jasper has an amused smile. ||Like a well-oiled machine, huh?||

“Like two professional mechs assisting each other in delicate acrobatic maneuvers, yes.” But he gives the minibot a small smile as he rises and fans his now-aching wings, carefully resetting them before scanning the surrounding area.

“I wasn’t picking anyone up. You gettin’ anything?” Meister is scanning the edges of the building, visor dimming as he broadens his focus, but Prowl’s doorwings don’t report anything but the breeze.

“Nothing.”

::I’m not picking up anyone heading in your direction inside the building, but I don’t have cameras on the exterior.:: Ratchet’s own voice is rich with thinly-disguised humor. ::Best get a move on - I don’t doubt the enforcers are on the way.::

That, in fact, is easy enough to check. ::One moment, Medic.:: He activates his scanner, filtering through the chatter as mechs report in. There’s only a handful of text on the main channel, but as he flicks through the side channels, one is a hubbub of posts. 

-What’s going on Southside?- He tosses it into the chat, and it takes a moment for anyone to respond. 

Coaster, a Protohexian transplant, gets back to him first. -Some kind of fire at Rhodolite’s. Mechs are trapped, apparently.-

-Are you able to respond?- That’s Barricade, voice, for once, all business.

-Unable. My apologies - I’m all the way Northside, it will be at least three joors before I can reach the scene.- He cross references the traffic maps before sending a ping of his ‘location’. -Probably more - traffic is substantial.-

-Clear the lines, then, but monitor. I’ll comm you in a few joors if we still need assistance - unlikely, unless this is a major fire, but we’ve got no reports back yet. Prisme’s the lead currently if you do make it back.- 

-Understood, commander. Standing by for comms, then. Clearing the line.-

He monitors for a few more moments before returning his attention outwards. ::They’re treating it as a major fire scene, at the moment. Enforcers twenty kliks out, fire fifteen. Fire will wait to proceed until the enforcers are on scene.::

There’s silence on the comms for a moment, then: ::Well, _slag._ That’s handy.:: Ratchet’s voice is even more pleased. ::Get out of there, kids. No point in sticking around for the cops.::

::Sounds good.:: Meister straightens up, giving Jasper a glance. “Don’t freak out, mech.”

His frame whirls again, until it’s blue and gold once more. “We’ve gotta get you to the train station. Your friend’s got you a ticket to Iacon, an’ some friends there that’re gonna help you settle in - Praxus ain’t gonna be safe for you, not after this. With Rhodolite dead, ain’t no mech that’s gonna follow a bit like you outta the city, though - you’ll do fine.”

||Iacon?|| There’s a disbelieving flare to the gesture. ||But I -||

Jasper pauses for a moment, hesitating, and then continues. ||No, Iacon’s fine. Iacon’s perfect.|| His hands drop to his sides, then pull behind his back in an anxious gesture. || _Iacon_ || he signs to himself at the very edge of Prowl’s vision, every glyph of it disbelieving.

It’s understandable. Iacon has its problems, and its slums, and its crime, but to the average mech in Praxus - to an urchin like Jasper in Praxus - it’s as far away a dream as the Primacy itself.

“Iacon - but we’ve gotta get moving.” Meister leaps up onto the gunwale of the barge with easy grace, offering a hand down to Jasper, who follows him shakily up.

They move carefully from derelict to derelict, relying on the sturdy frames of the barges rather than risking the corroded flat metal of their decks. It takes a few kliks to work their way around to the shoreline - but by the time they have pedes on solid ground, Jasper is feeling confident enough to run.

It doesn’t take long to lose themselves in the growing night - first three frames among the dozens of onlookers gawking at the sirens, then three silent figures sprinting off into the maze of Praxus’ streets. By the time they’re far enough away to slow down, the wails of sirens are far behind them, the flash of emergency lights merely a flicker in the haze of the Praxian skyline.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The train station is bustling with mechs when they arrive, despite the late joor. Prowl and Jasper duck into a side hallway as Meister goes to the ticket window and returns with two stubs. 

“Here, mech. These’ll have you on the next train to Iacon, in fourty kliks. It’s a private booth - figured you’d not want to attract too much attention, with the -” He gestures at his throat.

“Here.” Prowl offers him the bucket of cred chips. “These are clean - nothing to trace back to either of us. They should be enough to get yourself a shuttle, once you’re in Iacon. A mech named First Aid has a clinic there - go find him. He’s agreed to take an… anonymous donation… for your medical expenses.”

“Once you’re back on your pedes… Live a good life, mech. Stay outta Praxus. Ain’t nothing worth dying here for, young mech like you.” Meister’s smile is kind as he claps the smaller mech on the shoulder. “Do us both a favor, though - leave our names outta this?”

||Of course!|| Jasper’s optics widen, bright and earnest. ||I really - I can’t thank you enough. Can you - I don’t know his comm code, we always met in person - can you say thank you to Prowl for me, too?||

“Sure, mech.” Meister grins. “An’ like I said, have a good life. Can’t stick around, I’m afraid - ain’t good for you to be seen with us, or us together, but we’ll stick around an’ keep an optic on you until you’re on the train, alright?”

||Thank you.|| Jasper gives a soft burst of static, and Meister - barely - manages to keep from jerking away as he throws his arms around him. ||Both of you.|| He reaches out, and Prowl, somewhat awkwardly, steps into the hug.

Then he’s gone, tickets in hand, cred subspaced, out onto the milling platform.

Meister tracks him as he goes, until he’s almost at the edge of sight past the crowd. “Shall we?” he gestures, and Prowl follows him out into the throng. 

::Thank you, Meister. It… This means a lot to me. More than I can say, really.::

::It wasn’t a problem, mech. Really. I’m glad we could help - your mech is a charmer. He deserves better than a short shove into a smelter.:: Meister reaches out, brushing a hand over the space between Prowl’s wings before it tracks down to wrap around his hand with a comforting squeeze. ::Iacon’ll be good for him.::

::Better than Praxus,:: Prowl agrees, with a pang of homesickness. Down the track, Jasper has found his boarding platform - he stops and turns back, catching a glance at them before settling onto a bench.

Meister guides him to a similar bench nearby, one with a decent line of sight, and Prowl unsubspaces a cube and a few gels as they sit. He offers the gels to Meister, who pops one in his mouth with a pleased hum as Prowl takes a hearty swig from the cube.

::Hey, mech… I wanted ta talk ta you, before we split for the night.:: Meister pauses, as if looking for the words to continue. ::’Bout Rhodolite.:: 

::She would have kept hunting us. Hunting _him._ :: Meister’s question sparks a sudden nervous defensiveness in him. ::It wasn’t the first time I’ve killed, Meister.::

::I know.:: The assassin quiets at that, letting the truth of it hang between them. ::I don’t think you should be alone tonight, mech. I don’ think you’re gonna hurt yourself, or nothing - I just don’ think you should be alone.::

A train rushes by, whistle blaring, and Prowl takes the chance not to answer the question - lets the air and noise buy him a few extra moments. Then it’s gone, and there’s nothing left but answering Meister. ::I don’t have anyone to stay with. Nobody to stay with me, either. Everyone who might have is in Iacon.:: He hesitates. ::Bluestreak used to recharge with me, after a rough shift.::

Jazz gives him a soft, sad look, optics dimming, and the hand around his squeezes a little tighter - not crushing, just… holding him. ::I was thinking I could. If you’d be okay with that. I don’t want to impose.::

That’s… not what he was expecting. But Meister… :: _I_ don’t want to impose, Meister. I’m not very good company, I’m afraid. I…:: He trails off, reluctant to admit it, but… ::I have night terrors, sometimes. When it gets bad. I’ll wake you up.::

Meister’s visor brightens with surprise at that before dimming even further, and Prowl can, very faintly, feel a brush of sadness in his field where his hand is touching the assassin’s. ::Slag, mech. Ain’t no reason you should be dealing with that alone.:: Meister shifts a little closer to him, until he’s a warm, soothing presence pressed against Prowl’s side. ::Let me spend the night, mech. Ain’t gonna hurt me any - no one’s gonna miss me if I show up late at the park tomorrow.::

Prowl looks at him, letting his own optics dim as he contemplates the idea. ::May I touch you, Meister?:: 

Meister meets his optics without a hint of doubt. ::Sure.::

Prowl doesn’t hesitate any further. He wraps one arm over the smaller mech, drawing him against his side, letting the ragged edge of his own field extend just a tiny bit beyond his frame. Meister almost hisses at the contact, and Prowl nearly releases him before he realizes that it’s the field, not the touch, that’s upset the other mech.

::Slag.:: Meister almost chokes on the word. ::Mech, I ain’t gonna push you into anything, but _I know where you live._ Let me stay. Please.::

::If you’re sure.::

Meister doesn’t answer that with comms - but the way his frame tucks more tightly into Prowls, the slight brush as he lets his field, warm and soothing, slip just a little further away from his frame, is answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, my job dissolved our delivery department today. It's bittersweet - on the one hand, I no longer have to worry about being recalled to work, so I can suckle off that sweet sweet government tiddi and work on stuff like writing and job applications for another two months. On the other, I was part of the first group ever hired when we opened delivery three years ago - and I was the last person from that era around, through multiple groups of new hires, new managers, even a new GM. It was kind of my baby - I had a freshly minted degree in Business Administration/Marketing, and my GMs let me build the program up the way I wanted, which was a great experience.
> 
> That said, I banged this fucker out today. I actually quite like it. I'm stress-posting it tonight rather than waiting until tomorrow b/c between world events, losing my job, and general fuckery, I need the social contact of posting something. Also, you've all been fucking amazing commenters, so I figure you deserve a poorly-edited present.
> 
> And lo! Only the epilogue remains, may it reign eternal! I'm very excited. I had a lot of fun with this section of the story, and I'm pretty pumped to be knocking at the big 5-0 - that's right, with this chapter, we're officially at 50k words for the series as a whole! Very exciting times, and - oh dear god - it means that I'm well on track to beat GOA, which took four months to hit 80k compared to this fic's current... eleven days. shit. This'll definitely get there, at least - I'm still holding strong to my expectation of around 120k words.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, and to everyone who comments - you all mean the world to me! Stay safe, and stay healthy!
> 
> ETA: I almost forgot the most important part. THE MOST IMPORTANT PART!
> 
> This is a visual depiction of how they get Prowl thru the door:
> 
> https://www.deviantart.com/aard-rinn/art/Bumper-Blast-Door-843750703
> 
> It's like when you're moving a couch, and you have to lever it thru doorways. It's incredibly dumb, and will probably become a deleted scene in the final edit of this b/c it's absurd, but it's based on the transformation sequence for my favorite Prowl toy and recently-unemployed me thinks it's the funniest fucking thing ever, so I'm leaving it in.


	8. Epilogue I - Jazz and Prowl

Waking up is sluggish.

He’s… safe. At home, in his own berth, thermal sheets piled loosely around him. There’s someone in the berth with him - someone warm and pliant, with a soothing, open field. Small - holdable. He skims through the list of his fellow officers for a moment, trying to figure out who he might actually have trusted enough to bring home, before he remembers.

Oh. It’s Meister.

He onlines his optics, careful not to shift and wake the still-sleeping assassin, and stares down at the lithe black-and-white frame in his arms. Meister’s face is peaceful, not even a hint of tension in his frame - even with Prowl holding him close.

It’s… nice. Soothing, on a spark-deep level, in a way that makes the memory of energon spurting from Rhodolite’s neck and the fear in Jasper’s optics as he knelt and the way Jazz looked so terrified and the -

He chokes on it, and crushes it down, forcing his frame to still and stifling his vents.

-Commander Barricade, unable to report for shift today.- He writes the note hastily. -Engine cough; I’ve already contacted a medic. Will have a report sent.-

He doesn’t want to have to move. Isn’t sure he can face the world right now… If Meister wasn’t here, it would be easier, but with a soft, warm, supportive field so close - he just wants to stay here.

It’s only when Meister’s visor flickers with blue light, coming online slowly, that he realizes how badly he’s trembling.

“Prowl?” Meister’s voice is breathlessly soft, and his hand is gentle as it rises to press against Prowl’s cheek, a smooth, cool point of contact that gives him something to ground himself against. “You alright?”

As if there’s nothing wrong with the way he’s wrapped himself around the assassin’s frame, as if he was a partner or a lover or Bluestreak - 

Prowl gives a soft keen, and presses - not forcefully, but Meister moves with him willingly even at the slight touch - Meister’s helm into that comforting place beneath his chin where he can feel the other mech’s field against his. Meister gives a quiet purr, but doesn’t struggle or pull away - and it makes Prowl feel almost worse. He shouldn’t be doing this, taking advantage - 

Meister lets out another soothing purr, frame vibrating ever-so-softly, and speaks again. “Do you have work, Prowl?”

All he can do is blat back ::No. Called sick.:: He doesn’t trust his voice.

Meister gives a soft laugh and another purr at that. “Good. Good job, Prowl. We can spend all day like this, then.” A considering pause. “Do you want me to comm, too, Prowl?”

He shakes his helm - it’s just the faintest twitch, but he doesn’t want to jostle Meister. The other mech’s voice is… is soothing. He wishes Meister wouldn’t stop talking.

“Alright, Prowl.” The assassin shifts a little under him. “Ain’t going anywhere.”

There’s a soft touch at his side, and Prowl realizes that Meister is stroking his hip - gently, calming. “‘M gonna stay right here, Prowl. Go back ta ‘charge. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He doesn’t want to, but… Meister doesn’t lie to him. Meister will be here.

Recharge claims him quickly, inky black and smooth as glass.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he wakes again, he feels… better. More stable. Meister is still there, a warm, comforting anchor -

\- who is online, watching him with a dimmed visor.

“You feelin’ better, mech?” His voice is still soft, and Prowl takes a moment to find his own before replying.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Good.” Meister gives a pleased hum, shifting in his arms, but making no move to rise. “Did you actually remember to call out of work? You were… pretty out of it this morning.”

Prowl gives a quick glance to the precinct’s channel, where Barricade’s only response is a pro forma approval for two days of medical leave pending a medic’s note. “Yes. It’s been approved.”

“Good.” Meister goes quiet for a klik. “How’s your fuel levels, Prowl?”

“36%. I should fuel.” He hesitates for only a moment, realizing suddenly that he’s still covered in dried energon - and that Meister’s hands are still spattered with it as well. “We should shower.”

Meister nods. “Shower first, I think.” He slips from Prowl’s grip carefully - Prowl doesn’t try to stop him, even as his hands ache to grab him, to keep him in place - but doesn’t move away, staying close enough to overlap as he helps Prowl to his pedes. “You gonna be alright if I join you?”

“Please don’t leave.” His voice is faint, but Meister just nods. 

“Alright, mech. Not gonna go.” Meister guides him across the hall, into the shower - turns the solvent on, and Prowl slumps as it floods over him, almost-boiling. It fizzes as the energon begins to dissolve, spilling out from between the seams of his plating in faint streams of pink.

Meister gives a contented hum as the hot solvent flows over his own plating. They stand like that, fields overlapping, for one klik, then two, as Prowl’s plating slowly unclamps and Meister’s frame relaxes into the heat.

It’s only once the worst of the dried energon has softened that Meister picks up a brush, and turns back to him.

“Let me -” He reaches out, and with delicate sweeps, begins to work his way along Prowl’s seams.

Prowl… He should protest. He’s not sick, not a youngling - he can handle his own plating - and Meister, for all his skill, is a civilian. This isn’t the same as letting another enforcer help him clean after a raid - won’t mean the same to Meister, it’s too much of an imposition -

But it feels the same, and he doesn’t say anything at all.

When Meister finishes, finally stepping back, he takes the brush from the smaller mech and begins the same ritual. By now, the hot solvent and cleanser from the brush have scoured the energon from Meister’s hands - but he works over them just the same, the movements as much symbolic as practical. It relaxes something inside him, caring for another officer - another mech, he reminds himself, but Meister doesn’t protest as he works the brush over his shoulders, under the seam of his bumper. The assassin watches, and his field is curious - but he doesn’t ask questions, and Prowl doesn’t feel like talking.

He only stops when he’s steady again - when he can think without the disorienting ache of panic. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem, mech.” There’s nothing lavacious in Meister’s tone - nothing even flirty. It’s a relief. He gestures for the smaller mech to rinse himself, and turns away - only when Meister turns the solvent off does he ignite the vapors with a click.

He follows Meister back out to the living room, obeys meekly when the assassin gestures him to the couch. Meister himself goes to the kitchen, mixing additives, heating fuel on the stove. He’s not gone for long - within a few kliks, he returns. “Here. Nice and sour, how you like it.” 

Prowl glances up, accepting the warm cube from Meister before the other mech settles down beside him on the couch. The assassin leans into him, keeping close as he sips from his own cube.

They sit together quietly for a while, fueling. It’s only as his energy levels rise above seventy percent that Meister finally speaks.

“How do you deal with slag like this normally?” Meister keeps his voice soft and nonjudgemental, but Prowl flinches back anyways, unable to keep a flicker of guilt out of his field.

“I just…” He gestures helplessly at the air. “Open more bandwidth on the ATS. After a day or two, it doesn’t bother me as much anymore.”

“That’s…” Meister pauses, and it’s obvious he’s debating how to respond. Something inside Prowl cringes - he knows what’s coming. “That doesn’t sound healthy, mech.”

It’s not the accusation of sparklessness he was expecting. It’s not even _wrong,_ loathe though he may be to admit it. “It isn’t,” he replies, but Meister doesn’t push.

They sit together for another few kliks in silence, and Prowl lets his mind drift to the nebulous whisperings of the ATS, the half-formed and half-dreaming ideas it had produced the night before. In the light of day, they seem… not impossible. With Meister warm and open beside him, they seem like they might even work.

“I had… a thought.” He puts it out gently, and Meister glances over to him, optics brightening.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve been doing this sort of thing - assassinations - in Praxus for… at least a centivorn.” He waves a hand. “Further back the cases get more loosely connected - you become harder to track. Was it always targeting gangsters?” 

“Yeah. A centivorn and a half, about - I started off going after street toughs. Was a while before I did anything worth bein’ called a real hit. Why?” Meister’s visor glints curiously.

“It has not been terribly successful.”

 _That_ gets a bark of laughter out of the other mech. “Primus, don’t soften yourself for my feelings, Prowl!”

He drops his wings, flinching away - “I apologize. I hadn’t meant to offend -” But before he can even get the apology out, Meister is following his movements, pressed against his side, his own field radiating affection.

“No - no, mech, I was jokin’. I ain’t offended.” Prowl meets his gaze for a moment, but there’s nothing but earnestness in the smaller mech’s frame.

“I didn’t mean to imply fault, Meister. You have done admirably.” He pauses, trying to think of how to clarify his intent. “But without some sort of plan, some kind of direction, the Lords are too numerous and too powerful for any one mech.”

Meister cocks his helm. “Plans are dangerous. Any sort of pattern, any chance I stay in one place or work one target too long, and the enforcers will be on me - striking fast and vanishing is the only way to keep them off our heels.”

“...I could plan your targets for you.” He feels unreasonably bold even suggesting it - half-waits for an outburst. Meister has, so far, been fiercely protective of his independence, and what he’s proposing… There’s no reason for the assassin to trust him like this. “The ATS… I could help you select targets with a sufficient degree of scatter to remain unpredictable, but with an overarching focus - weakening one of the Lords specifically, or targeting the mech-trade, perhaps.”

Meister’s visor has brightened, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“When it’s noticed that your pattern has shifted, they would give the new data to a tactician - have someone new take over the case, to get fresh optics on it. I’m the best in Praxus - they would give it to me.”

“And you would throw them off the trail.” Meister’s voice is unreadable.

“Yes.” When Meister doesn’t say anything else, he elaborates. “No one would question it - data aggregation and processing are always overseen by the same mech. It would not be hard to destroy the patterns beyond the ability of even another tactician to detect.”

“That’s risky work, Prowl. If you got caught…”

“No one would suspect me. I have been working in Praxus for six decavorn. In that time, I have gained a… reputation… for my unwillingness to bend the law.” He pauses. “But the law wouldn’t have saved Jasper. It wouldn’t have stopped Feldspar.”

The unreadable look in Meister’s optics turns into a deep sadness - his field pulls back as the same feeling flickers through it, but Prowl chases it with his own. “I’m sorry, mech. Shouldn’t… It shouldn’t be like this.”

“It shouldn’t. But it is.” He vents, heavily, at the weight of it. “I want…”

 _I don’t want to be alone._ He doesn’t say it - lets the words hang in the air between them, instead.

But Meister seems to understand it - understand him - even without the words.

“Yeah. Said I wouldn’t leave you alone, Prowl. If this’s what you want…” He gives a small smile, even though his optics are still sad. “I’m lucky to have you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! Finally, our two boys are playing for the same team. And a damn good thing, too - as we've seen these last few chapters, our boy Prowl needs a support network, on account of how he wouldn't be able to pick a positive coping habit out of a lineup if it spat in his face.
> 
> One more bit of epilogue, and then we get to see these two chucklefucks working together as the flawless machine of murder-based justice that they were meant to be!


	9. Chapter 9

The train isn’t nearly as full as a daytime train would be, but Jasper still struggles to move forward through the cars. Larger frames don’t often look out for minibots - he has to duck the swaying blades of a helicopter at least once, and squeeze between a pair of off-duty tanks who barely take any notice of him.

With the pain chit in, the worst of his injuries are reduced to little more than a constant ache, but it’s still slow going to reach the private cars.

Once he gets there, he offers his ticket to the attendant - whose optics widen as he takes in the battered state of his frame. “Are you - do you need a medic?” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “ah - Sir.”

Optimistically, Jasper tries Hand. ||No. Just to sit down.|| He gestures at his throat. ||I’m on my way to a specialist in Iacon. Don’t worry.||

“Of course, sir. Right this way.” Jasper follows obediently to the booth, which the attendant unlocks with a short bow. “Can I, ah - bring you anything? Energon, a first aid kit?”

||Energon would be nice.|| He’s not too low, but he could manage a cube. ||Thank you very much.||

He makes himself comfortable in the small booth, gazing out the window across the dark platform - searching for any sign of Meister or Prowl. By the time the attendant returns, he’s lost any track of them in the growing night.

||Thank you.|| He bobs his helm gratefully as he accepts the cube of warm, spiced energon. It’s topped with zinc flakes - favorite sweet topping of younglings, a gesture that would be almost condescending if they weren’t also the favorite sweet topping of _him_. ||I was going to recharge, if you don’t mind. Thank you so much for your help, but if I could be undisturbed until we reach Iacon?||

“Of course, sir. I’ll leave a marker on the door for the other attendants.” The mech bows again, door clicking softly closed behind him as he steps back out into the hall. 

He sips the warm energon thoughtfully as he digs out a comm number, opens a commline. It takes a few moments for it to become active - his credentials are checked, rechecked, confirmed by two separate comms experts - but eventually the encrypted line blooms open.

:: _Bumblebee._ :: The relief in his commander’s voice is palpable.

::Hey, Optimus.:: He lets some of his exhaustion slip through, but he can’t hide the grin in his voice, either - the heady excitement of a successful infiltration. ::How’s it hanging?::

::Mirage commed - he said something happened with the extraction. Are you safe?::

::Yeah. Tell ‘rage to get out of Praxus - I’m already gone.:: He can almost feel Optimus relax at that. ::Hopped a train to Iacon with a blown cover and a hell of a story to tell - any chance you can have someone meet me at the station?::

::I’ll send Ironhide.:: Optimus hesitates. ::What happened? Mirage was readying an extraction - he said someone else grabbed you first?::

::My cop friend wasn’t as willing to burn an informant as we all thought, I guess. He and a friend busted me out - let ‘rage know I said thanks for the cover, by the way. They got me to the station and shipped me to Iacon so I could ‘build a better life for myself.’:: He can’t keep the grin back at that. ::You’re never going to _believe_ who his friend was, though.::

::Oh?::

:: _Meister._ :: He almost sings the name.

Optimus takes a moment to recognize it. ::The assassin?::

::The assassin.:: He confirms it with another grin. ::Something is _rusted_ in Praxus, Prime - and I think I know _exactly_ where to start scouring.::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MUAHAHA! You - many of you - WERE RIGHT THE ENTIRE TIME!
> 
> I think a lot of people got bits of this - basically everyone caught that Mirage was the sensor ghost, and several people had Jasper pegged as Bumblebee from the first chapter. I think only a couple of people guessed that Mirage was behind both the blast doors closing and the one being propped open, but IDK if anyone pegged Bumblebee as working for/with Mirage... which, tbf, was never really alluded to in the text. Good job, ya sleuthy sleuths!
> 
> Obviously, we will, at some point, rejoin this plot thread - but for now, let us back-burner it; it'll be a while before we rejoin this crew. Still, feel free to speculate - I always love reading people's thoughts on what's coming next!


End file.
